He took me in his hands, and opened me up to the world.
With one glance, he saw past my bland exterior, past my paper cover, and into a complex world of events, actions, memories, joy, sadness, success, loss, loathing, indignation, appreciation, fear, hope, love… He saw everything I was and accepted me, looked behind the words and understood me. He took me in his hands, over and over, always knowing what he’d find but never tiring of any of it. He opened me up to the world, and he loved me.
For years, I stayed in his house, lay on his bed, and lived alongside him. I watched as he grew taller, broader, and as time lined his face, I stayed by him; I watched girls, then ladies, then women walk in and out of his door. His love affairs with them were always short, and, as far as I was concerned, inconsequential; for I could always be sure he’d return to me, running his fingers down my spine and caressing me into the nights he would have otherwise spent alone. For I was his faithful, sole companion. When he needed it, I offered inspiration, and when he needed it, I gave him an outlet for his ideas. When he needed me, I was there, at arm’s length; accessible.
Maybe too accessible.
For one day, he found he had filled me up with all the little things there were to think and say, and all the moments I ever had to give had been memorized and stored away in the very back of his mind. He knew me by heart, and so I no longer fascinated him as I had in his youth. I bored him. I was obsolete, and so I was replaced. One warm day, years after my birth, after years of giving birth, he gave up on me, and gave in. And I? I was given away.
And years later, when he’d forgotten my prose and feel of my skin, he would search for me, wishing to hold me again.
* * *
With one glance, he saw past my bland exterior, past my paper cover, and into a complex world of events, actions, memories, joy, sadness, success, loss, loathing, indignation, appreciation, fear, hope, love… He saw everything I was and accepted me, looked behind the words and understood me. He took me in his hands, over and over, always knowing what he’d find but never tiring of any of it. He opened me up to the world, and he loved me.
For years, I stayed in his house, lay on his bed, and lived alongside him. I watched as he grew taller, broader, and as time lined his face, I stayed by him; I watched girls, then ladies, then women walk in and out of his door. His love affairs with them were always short, and, as far as I was concerned, inconsequential; for I could always be sure he’d return to me, running his fingers down my spine and caressing me into the nights he would have otherwise spent alone. For I was his faithful, sole companion. When he needed it, I offered inspiration, and when he needed it, I gave him an outlet for his ideas. When he needed me, I was there, at arm’s length; accessible.
Maybe too accessible.
For one day, he found he had filled me up with all the little things there were to think and say, and all the moments I ever had to give had been memorized and stored away in the very back of his mind. He knew me by heart, and so I no longer fascinated him as I had in his youth. I bored him. I was obsolete, and so I was replaced. One warm day, years after my birth, after years of giving birth, he gave up on me, and gave in. And I? I was given away.
And years later, when he’d forgotten my prose and feel of my skin, he would search for me, wishing to hold me again.
* * *
Heavenly Dispute
The angel turned to God and cried,
“I thought that you were on my side!
That I was born for greater things
than singing songs and flapping wings
and lounging in the stratosphere;
so, what, Lord, am I doing here?”
But God just raised a weary eye,
waved his heavy hand, “Goodbye,
if life in Heaven isn’t well,
I’ve naught to say but
go to Hell.”
* * *
A much younger man would take me next, and he would light me afire. He was rough in appearance, inspired by darkness and chaos and flames, and all the things in the world that scream and cry out for attention. His skin was his canvas, and he painted it with bright colors and macabre scenes. Married to morbidity, he knew no other lover.
He took me in so fast, and so believed he knew me well. He scoffed at my love for beautiful words and scorned my collection of events, actions, emotions, memories... He smirked at all the wrong moments, and laughed when I revolted, slicing his fingertips. He took me in so fast it hurt; and then he took the part he liked the least and ripped it from my core.
He tore it out of me, so swiftly I almost didn’t feel it go. And then he held that part of me, and gently rolled it between his fingertips: he touched me the sweetest he ever touched me, just before he destroyed me. He touched me softly, lit his match, and watched me cringe and smolder between his lips. He liked the power to destroy me, to take from me what he wished to take and make of me what he wished to make, to leave me jaded, like him. But, though he took that part of me, though it was gone from me, I still felt it burn. My phantom limb ached as I watched myself glow, and dissipate into the cold night air in a cloud of chocolate-scented smoke.
There is now a permanent hole in me; I can never reclaim what he took. And thinking back upon this loss, I am sure it was a part he really didn’t know; and thinking back upon this loss, I am sure he never really cared to know. Destruction is easy in apathy: before he could destroy any more of me, he came to destroy himself.
* * *
autumn
a leaf that falls
from treetops high
is not aware
it's doomed to die
it just lives on
for a little while
color fading
on top of the pile
and then comes death
a welcomed state
when it can fly again
and watch as bodies break
and crumble
beneath my hollow self
* * *
It was a girl who next possessed me. She was young, but only in measure of time. She was the type who read Hemingway, and could recall Yeats quotes. She sang in elevators. She wore flowers in her hair. She took photographs of strangers. She smelled books. She petted bumblebees. She wore knee socks and vintage dresses. She dreamed of being young forever. She liked sequins. She hated raisins. She owned three pairs of Doc Martins. She cried at weddings, and laughed at funerals, and ran from babies, and spied on old people. One day she lay down in the middle of one of those white profile outlines in police paint on the ground, and, when asked if an accident had taken place at that spot, she replied, “Yes. My life.”
She was the type who loved to write notes in the margins. She was the type who loved to read notes in the margins. And any space that was not filled, she filled with all the pretty things she could think of. She loved me although I was irrevocably damaged; she loved me even though a part of me was missing. She loved me because a part of me was missing.
I was always afraid of losing her. She was sad; most of the time she was sad, and she cried to me on many occasions. She marked me with her tears, and I clung to them; they were a piece of her I needed to hold onto. Her hands were small, but her grip was strong, and with what I had to give, I tried to make the rest of her stronger as well. But life was too cruel for her fragile soul, and there came a time when I was not enough.
She marked me with little drops from little wrists, and I clung to them; they were a piece of her I needed to hold onto.
* * *
* * *
It was a girl who next possessed me. She was young, but only in measure of time. She was the type who read Hemingway, and could recall Yeats quotes. She sang in elevators. She wore flowers in her hair. She took photographs of strangers. She smelled books. She petted bumblebees. She wore knee socks and vintage dresses. She dreamed of being young forever. She liked sequins. She hated raisins. She owned three pairs of Doc Martins. She cried at weddings, and laughed at funerals, and ran from babies, and spied on old people. One day she lay down in the middle of one of those white profile outlines in police paint on the ground, and, when asked if an accident had taken place at that spot, she replied, “Yes. My life.”
She was the type who loved to write notes in the margins. She was the type who loved to read notes in the margins. And any space that was not filled, she filled with all the pretty things she could think of. She loved me although I was irrevocably damaged; she loved me even though a part of me was missing. She loved me because a part of me was missing.
I was always afraid of losing her. She was sad; most of the time she was sad, and she cried to me on many occasions. She marked me with her tears, and I clung to them; they were a piece of her I needed to hold onto. Her hands were small, but her grip was strong, and with what I had to give, I tried to make the rest of her stronger as well. But life was too cruel for her fragile soul, and there came a time when I was not enough.
She marked me with little drops from little wrists, and I clung to them; they were a piece of her I needed to hold onto.
* * *
Gallant Attempts
A little man stood on a hill
To try to reach the stars;
And when that failed, he climbed a tree
But found them just as far.
So he just captured fireflies,
And put them in a jar.
* * *
Next was a much younger girl, but less in body than in mind: she found the world dull and gray, so tried to run from home and time. But even escape was half-hearted; she was not the determined kind.
I never cared for this one much, though I watched her closely with the days; she left me sitting on the side, a silent stranger, an extra, the unnamed character in a modern play. I never cared for this one much, she never cared for me at all – and so she went and so I stayed, staring blankly at the wall.
In the days she spent away, I’d amuse myself with silly things; conversing with old porcelain dolls, scoffing at Cosmo magazines - though romance novels lined her shelf, the girl was only seventeen.
Many nights I’d turn my eye to watch her run about the room, packing pillows under sheets, staring blankly at the moon, before she’d open up the window and slip into the mist and gloom… and into the back of a dark red Mercedes, parked on the corner of April and June. Or a pick-up truck on Maple and Cereus, or a Volvo at Epyphyllum and Broome. Sometimes she didn’t return until the night flowers ceased to bloom.
I never cared for this one much; but I left her soon.
* * *
Push
If hands are hands, are hands
of another girl your plan?
If hearts are hearts, is mine
a hackneyed word in rhyme?
If love is love, in youth
does love appear uncouth?
You’re blunt and quite unfair
when you see me standing there
with scratches on my face;
with leaves caught in my hair.
* * *
There are times I wonder how life gives direction; bouncing around in the back of a dark red Mercedes was one of those remarkable times. I was picked up and thrown down, and I slid around for a minute or two, before being picked up once again, by a boy who was then told to “get the hell out of the backseat of the goddamn car.” And so he did, without a huff or a grumble, and he took me along with him—a companion for the long walk home.
On the way, he flipped through moments, looking for moments, searching for meaning. He started taking me along every time he went out; and it seemed he was always walking home. I was glad to accompany him; he was quiet and thoughtful. When he spoke, he only asked questions, and then he was quiet again. He spoke so rarely, that most people thought he was odd, or a mute. In fact, he could speak seven languages – but because he rarely spoke, no one ever knew.
He always looked at the stars. We’d walk down the street, and he’d name constellations, tracing galaxies with the tips of his fingers. He wondered what else was up there; he wondered who might be up there. Sometimes he thought someone might be watching, sometimes he though he might just be alone; sometimes he thought that nothing existed, and sometimes he thought he saw chimera or ghosts. Sometimes he smiled at his brain’s strange inventions, and his eyes glowed with the humor that accompanied the analysis of his over-active imagination.
He needed answers that I couldn’t give him, and he knew it and was accepting. He never got angry; he was always so even, for he knew he had far too many questions. He simply took what I had to offer, and offered me to someone who needed me more.
* * *
Riddle
Je suis bleu,
je suis blanche,
je suis jaune,
je suis rouge.
J’étais vivante,
mais je pars, maintenant.
Avant que tu ne sois né,
je possèdais le ciel;
maintenant, tu vis
et bois le lait, et manges le miel.
Vois la lumière
qui trouve tes jolis yeux:
ton perception
ment à ton coeur!
Oui, la lumière,
elle chante bruyante:
tu vois une ange!
Ris joyeusement!
Mais, mon amour, je suis morte
il y a dix ans.
* * *
I awoke one morn in weathered hands, callused and rough and wrinkled in their old age. The owner of those hands was quiet; I never heard her say a word. She simply picked me up, and with one grandmotherly look, summed me up. Apparently, she approved of me, for in the months that followed I became well acquainted with her little figure, her little cat, and her little red-brick home.
Most everyday was the same routine, shuffling about in fuzzy blue slippers, dusting old photos, ignoring visitors. Every night she lay in her bed, and listened to the cars go by. But some days she tired of the same routine, and so she’d do meaningless tasks. Sometimes she rearranged all the furniture in her bedroom; sometimes she moved around all the utensils in her kitchen. Sometimes she visited the local cemetery, and talked to husband, or her granddaughter. Sometimes, when the days were dark and lightning lit the skies—and she could be sure she would receive no visitors and no cars would bother to stop—she would sit on the stoop in front of her house, and let the rain soak her skin. She’d sit with her palms open, facing up, counting the raindrops as they bounced off her stiff fingertips. She tilted her chin to the sky, letting water run in her ancient eyes. The rain reminded her that she still could feel.
She was so tired. Tired of life and its disappointments, its osteoporosis and painful arthritis, she looked to me for life-support, as her newly appointed, unconventional geriatrician. My prescriptions were simpler, and far less expensive: I had her popping words instead of pills, sedating herself with thoughts instead of drugs. And so she read, and wrote, and smiled, and even laughed again; and grew in mind, even as her body withered away.
Before she died, I brought her back to life.
* * *
Most everyday was the same routine, shuffling about in fuzzy blue slippers, dusting old photos, ignoring visitors. Every night she lay in her bed, and listened to the cars go by. But some days she tired of the same routine, and so she’d do meaningless tasks. Sometimes she rearranged all the furniture in her bedroom; sometimes she moved around all the utensils in her kitchen. Sometimes she visited the local cemetery, and talked to husband, or her granddaughter. Sometimes, when the days were dark and lightning lit the skies—and she could be sure she would receive no visitors and no cars would bother to stop—she would sit on the stoop in front of her house, and let the rain soak her skin. She’d sit with her palms open, facing up, counting the raindrops as they bounced off her stiff fingertips. She tilted her chin to the sky, letting water run in her ancient eyes. The rain reminded her that she still could feel.
She was so tired. Tired of life and its disappointments, its osteoporosis and painful arthritis, she looked to me for life-support, as her newly appointed, unconventional geriatrician. My prescriptions were simpler, and far less expensive: I had her popping words instead of pills, sedating herself with thoughts instead of drugs. And so she read, and wrote, and smiled, and even laughed again; and grew in mind, even as her body withered away.
Before she died, I brought her back to life.
* * *
Hit and Miss
I drenched myself in muddy water today.
I found a puddle two feet deep
in the middle of the road
and jumped in.
Maybe it was foolish of me;
but I jumped in.
I kissed a stranger today.
I saw him walking next to me
and he looked unhappy
so I kissed him, and ran away.
Maybe it was foolish of me;
but I kissed him and ran away.
I told you that I love you today.
We were walking through the city
and you couldn’t wait to go home for the summer
and I thought, how I would miss you!
So I told you that I love you.
Maybe it was foolish of me.
* * *
Now I live in a dark place, for how long I don’t know. No one knows me now; no one owns me now. Packed away, I have time; time to reflect, time to wonder, time to imagine, time to live, love, list… All the time there was, is, will be, was, is, will be mine. Was… is… will be mine. Who ever possessed who?
* * *
To read through a book of poetry...
Life. Love. Lists.
Life loves lists.
Life lists loves
in chronological order.
Life. Love. Lies.
Lovers list lies.
and lovers list liars
in chronological order.
Love. Lists. Lies.
Still, lover tries,
listing lives of lovers
in chronological order.
A list of lovers and liars
on loose-leaf paper.
NS 10.15.09
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