52 (hurtling)

52 (hurtling)

i do not know

how to turn 52

it is something

i have never done before

it is not like any other

year of this inevitable gravity

and growing older has become

a crumbling and a hurtling like orbiting

reminding me of science fiction films

the soft roaring of space ships and planets

this thing happening to me against me over me

until i become a drifting consequence of being overwhelmed

•

this other side of over

this rain of you gone

has washed away all

the color leaving gray

and black and white

like a decaying silent film

•

i come to where you are

and even though you asked

me without asking me not to

you are not angry or surprised

i appear asking you to read to me

something you think wonderful

i expect Franny and Zooey

or Vonnegut or Carl Rogers

or something i could not guess

i lay my head in your lap

and then you read this poem

over the rush of planetary hurtling

“i do not know how to turn 52”

i say when you finish

“it is something

i have never done before”

i reach for your ankle

taking it in my hand

holding on this time

hurtling and crumbling

slip from my mind

and suddenly

“i do not know how to turn 52

without you”

i confess

“i know i know”

resting your warm palm

on my bare head

you say in a voice

like a hurtling space ship

and the colors of the rainbow

“that’s why i read you this poem”