tomorrow that we used to write about, together,
until the clouds gave out—
There used to be so little on my mind except the way you could look into the empty street
And see riots emerging
In the shards of glass, and I’ve thought long about how your hands,
your mother’s hands, are your own and the many times I kissed them were vain intrusions.
You are the great heist of my thoughts; you laid siege to my innocence
when you wrote that note to me about the microscope you used to look through;
and when you asked if I dreamed in color,
I saw colors I never knew existed.
They rained down through the window behind you when we ate at Victory 44:
I don’t know why I thought you’d want to eat at an English pub after having at last
returned from the mystical countryside teeming with
Shakespeare,
But your positivity overwhelmed even my own while we played dark games,
conjuring futures involving unexpected betrayals and dishonesties that
dislocated us with laughter.
We know now that your spoils of war went to the hungriest beggar lined up outside your tent;
I remember now sitting next to you in the luminous dark,
while Wall-E and Eve danced
among the stars in front of us, and how easily my tears fell without your knowledge.
And without the knowledge of anyone else, we pressed our bodies
against the wood of the play room, a monumental wall away from those
celebrating the New Year,
which did you know is going to be better than the last one?
I have only felt so lucky one or twenty times before:
Black dresses must be the vessel for uncontrollable beauty; I have seen it
in The Illusion Theater, where I took the stage against your every
irresistible will,
and I counted myself the wealthiest, healthiest person in the room
to be able to look you into the spotlight eye, and move closer still.
Seven months earlier, your smile grew even bigger as we gave our coats
to the hostess, and they gave us a chocolate dessert free
that we could have spent the entire night on, making swirls on the fancy plate.
However special I could make your birthday, I made it. You did the same
for me, though you might remember my birthday different. You might remember
throwing your shoe into the air, and that it hung suspended for a moment
before landing in the middle of traffic.
All this: The playful picture-taking, the late-night brownie making,
were planted seeds for the cultivation of what you deserve, and in one
feeble attempt in September I did try to sing to you,
Shaky as my voice was: I did intend to hold you for the longest time.
The first time required more determination than raw breath:
I waited up all through the soundless night to whisper you the song
That took your place as you disappeared.
To be fair I too have disappeared. My retreat into the mountains proved
to be fairly quick, yet you jumped into my arms without even knowing my lips.
When we were ever together, we took naps on the couch in your dad’s
basement, sweltering heat much ignored. You read my writing, and you found
the one word in that book that I was embarrassed of— You found
wife;
We found life in ripped up paper you dropped onto my lap,
in letting go of the wheel on Snelling, in holding each other while the
howling wind sought to tear us apart in the midnight backyard.
Landmarks retain their beauty even as the months wear on,
and if I look to the sky often enough, I can see your eyes gazing down on them:
My curb still glows with the intensity of what was once impossible.
I still pass the grassy foothills where your ghost breaks every night. I remember,
An ice-cream truck rolled on by while everything burned down.
But what I will never forget is the way you sat so still
When we rode the tram at the zoo, overlooking all of the animals:
the giraffes, hidden tigers,
and even your prairie dogs, and still you spoke not a word.
I will never know where you went to that day,
But I move through my days softly remembering
every little thing that was once every little everything,
and if you listen to my breath closely enough, you can hear
that last song float gently off it.
No comments:
Post a Comment