sleeping alone

sleeping alone

“Things I dislike: sleeping in an apartment alone”

Susan Sontag, diary, February 21, 1977

“I, who have felt the horror of mirrors”

Jorge Luis Borges, “Mirrors”

it was no mirror

but words from a diary

that showed me to me

the one who let you sleep alone

despite my only true desire

being me and you intertwined

so that others could not tell

where you ended and i began

i wake to a gray day of rain

only cracker crumbs sharing my sheets

impressions (hints of you)

impressions (hints of you)

I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors, because there are so many,

in my confusion, the tangible form of my great love.

Frida Kahlo letter to Diego Rivera

i.

i have trouble remembering names

but some things i never seem to forget

i am lying on my side

as you motioned for me to do

you are lying on your side

pressed against me front to my back

the angle of your knees wedged

warm and smooth into the angle of mine

yet i am not in the bed where you are not

because i am walking alone in memory

haunted by the embracing ghosts

of the impressions you left on me

unable to lend it the words it deserves

struggling to recall the name i almost hear

i have trouble remembering names

but some things i never seem to forget

ii.

i am waiting at the counter

to order a sandwich for lunch

and i hear others enter behind me

when i turn to look i see you there

in the young woman my eyes catch

these hints of you as a young woman

in small ways she looks like you

around her mouth and nose

but most of all she seems like you

the young man with her watches me

and he does not like that i study her

so i smile at him before looking away

i sit to eat my lunch aware of them in line

but i continue as if that doesn’t matter

as if these hints of you haven’t filled the room

iii.

a painter’s love letters

in her own handwriting

are both tiny works of art

and exactly like anyone else’s

although i cannot read spanish

i recognize the anxiety of deep love

her letters are sweet and bitter

like dark chocolate on your fingertip

believer

believer

i often wonder

how beautiful you truly are

for i have only my eyes

veiled with love and desire

through which to see you

forever beautiful to this believer

i cannot trust the sound of your voice

the smell of the curve of your thigh

every moment now stored in memory

i do not doubt but wonder in belief

they ran (15 April 2013)

they ran (15 April 2013)


they ran

they ran to win

they ran to be fast

they ran to chase personal bests

they ran to honor

they ran to survive

they ran to raise money for others

they ran to finish

and then the explosion

followed by another

they fell

they stumbled

they ducked their heads

they turned to look

they ran toward the billowing smoke

they ran toward the debris

they ran toward the screams

they ran toward the crying

they ran toward the bleeding

they ran

tears remain tears (time travel pt. 2)

tears remain tears (time travel pt. 2)

Do my crying underwater
I can’t get down any farther
All my drowning friends can see
Now there is no running from it
It’s become the crux of me
I wish that I could rise above it

“Demons,” The National

well before she could recognize it

but the way he came to understand

in those first days when they orbited

each other’s temporarily separate worlds

she would come to him & hook her hand

into his choosing him to follow her, to listen

& this he came to long for in her absence

the briefest of connections merging planets

this initial gesture of love & anticipation

grew to hand holding embracing kissing

the inevitables of making love & slipping

into each other as if nothing else could matter

but soon followed the other sort of inevitable

the complacency of habit & forgetting the hook

•

tears remain tears

at the bottom of the pool

where no one can see

the sobbing & crying

the stoicism of holding your breath

& the infinite solitude of water

•

long after she did recognize it

& the way he fell back through time

she hooked her hand in his hand

reaching for him to follow, to listen

& he shot to the surface to inhale

hurled back fourteen years to then

hooked & longing for it in her absence

& once again floating on it in her presence

the economy of mix tapes (bygone)

the economy of mix tapes (bygone)

'Member when we argued on the concept of regret?
You were an expert even then but not me, not yet
Now all you gotta do's remind me that we met
And there you got me, that's how you got me, taught me to regret

“Regret,” Fiona Apple

“’A real story requires a kind of magical baptism to link the world on this side with the world on the other side.’”

K to Sumire, Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami

You were right about the end
It didn't make a difference
Everything I can remember
I remember wrong

“Daughters of the Soho Riots,” The National

you taught me how to say “i love you”

and to hold my tongue with “i’m sorry”

you warned me intentions do not matter

as we walked hand in hand on eggshell paths

•

there was a certain economy of mix tapes

choosing the perfect blend of songs and order

for the one you love

when you are apart

but having only so much cassette time

(and then eventually the mysterious CD)

mix tapes had the precision and care

of quilting a poem from memorydreamregret

i regret the infinity of digital music

and the laziness of iTunes iPods and playlists

•

i know that i love you

i know that i am sorry

but i no longer know

the lines between memory dream regret

we are in the shower

it would be the last shower

a shower like a baptism

warm and washing over us

embracing until i slip to my knees

my arms encircling the center of you

my face against your stomach

and your hands on my head

i think of your armband tattoo

permanent and circling forever

i say quietly “i love you”

you reply “i know” like “good-bye”

i know that i love you

i know that i am sorry

you taught me how to say “i love you”

and to hold my tongue with “i’m sorry”

you warned me intentions do not matter

as we walked hand in hand on eggshell paths

•

no one had to tell me this

no one had to teach me this lesson

without intending to

i taught myself walking afraid:

regret is the cold dry ever after

the bygone of having let go

the jealousy of a solitary man

longing to be forever around you

spring (en route)

spring (en route)

when the world is puddle-wonderful

[in Just-], e. e. cummings

this is what we wait for

(like a reaching word

from a long-lost lover)

on the other side of winter

relentlessly cold & gray

this warm sunshine caress fulfilling

the aching of our hibernating chests

longing for the return

because we cannot forget

e. e. cummings

children’s Siren voices

new blossoms & balloons

& that first touch

after long separation

so when spring finally sweeps over me

it says to me what i want to say to you

through pollen-dusted lips against your ear:

“i gave you the Milan Kundera novel

because i was looking for some way to say ‘i love you’

& i was afraid ‘i love you’ just wasn’t enough.”

april fool

april fool

i am an april fool

although this is no different

than the fool i am

every other month of any year

twelve times a fool am i

because every single now

of every single day

every single week and month

my foolishness lies

right there on my sleeve

foolhardy and sincere

my heart is no hoax

i am a happy fool

i am a willing fool

i am a holy fool

i am only a fool

i am an april fool

but pick any calendar day

or any spot on a map—

now here me fool for you