I hit the intersections where your shoulders meet your neck, passing through the car wrecks of ex-boyfriends who parallel parked on the dead ends. and I just hope your skin lends me an extra mile so I can slow down, take a while to admire the landscape, drape my arm over your being there. this time when it comes to your skin, I’m a drunk driver trying to walk a straight line.
I’ve been pulled over so much that your simple touch is enough to make me assume the position - wishing I could stay there, where your hand searches my body for contraband that could land me in the jail of your ribcage. because road rage is a sickness and my medicine is your skin. I could spend the rest of my life circling the same block, wondering where does the world hide its private stock of people like you.” —Pulse, Shane Koyczan
Things that were beautiful today (April 29th)
- The woman with no shoes and the girl holding on to her cat as if the world was falling on her toes
- Hearing your voice through the computer screen. It sounded like envelopes burning in the fire, wrinkling and shivering. It felt like roasted almonds. There was nothing I could do, but let it wrap around me and steal winter away. I don’t think I’ll ever get it back.
- Going to the market in the city where you barely saw cars and everyone rode a bicycle. The market smelled like sweet and spicy herbs, which I found in the very back (jars and jars and jars of them). I also found a store that played old Persian music and felt like home, I wanted to curl beside the hand carved wood and sink into their hollow dimples.
- Homemade tea with raspberry leaves, chamomile, hibiscus flowers and ginger root.
my emptiness has a lake in it deep and watery
with several temperaments milk cola beer
at night the selves are made of water
all the openings flooded streaming with rain
my emptiness has an aqueduct in it
selves rushing through channels
dissolving washing away in streaks
my emptiness has a fish in it
a piece of seaweed liferaft a rocky strait
all night the selves are breaking themselves
again and again on the sandbar
you can’t get out from the drowning
nightwatery the blacksparkling pools
my emptiness has a nowhere reef an island
at night the immersion comes deep-running and sudden
it washes us under and sudden
Things that were beautiful about today (April 26th)
- The songs that came from the fireplace and through the water-torn pipes. They made my fears go away for a while, and that itself was quite a lot.
- There should be more, but that’s really all. There’s nothing else. There should be more.
There are no more blank pages,
I have filled them all with my screams
and hammers, all in the geography
of the night or in the mornings when
there is still no light, but the one
melting the wax of these candles,
They smell of you and they reek of
you and the death of seaweed at
the witching hour, yet they are better
than the obtuse drills of table side
lamps and night lights, dense with
trampled earth (my own).
Things that were beautiful today (April 23)
- The little ant that roamed restlessly on a young leaf, confused, or maybe just thinking of what to eat next, where to sleep tonight, how to pay the every growing electricity and phone bills. I told him everything would be okay, but I don’t think he was listening.
- Finger twitches, oh how you sleep so gracefully, with the taste of terracotta soldiers remaining on your tongue hours after you’ve awoken from your dreams.
- Looking at people, like really just looking at them and not through them or inside them. You see their distinguished movements in slow motion, the pacific winds as they breathe, and it’s almost as if time has turned into a liquid molecule, as if time really exists. You stop calculating their wrongdoings and watch them ease in and out of life a few meters away from you.
- The shadows in my room that were cast by the street lights, that peered through my open window as the wind exhaled. Their orderly lines in the outskirts of darkness, sometimes yielding to the quiver of a tree branch. Sitting on the ledge of my roof, my hands holding my knees soundly, wondering where the moon was and what it was up to. I was thinking that there should be nothing more beautiful than this, yet I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of homesickness. Sometimes it would wash away by the sound of the sprinklers. Sometimes it would be painted over by the hue of April’s foliage. But it never left me completely.
I order an outline of you: dash
chalk to make your bedroom,
telephone table, the east window.
I place myself inside and x
where it’s feasible to hide.
I sit where you sit and picture
which part of her you kiss first.
My fingertips trace the photograph
to tease out the darker places of her mind, yours.
I know you. Am trained
to crack lies. This is the year
they stopped counting the suicides.
I can’t say when I started
to hear. I felt her tremble, sigh.
Words grow faces. If I were to write it,
it would be gone. Winter averages:
shoes purchased per person—3.2,
children graduating from the Academy—96.
You want to know, on average, how much
of a person died this year.
I rest my forehead in the bowl of my hands.
Tonight you read her
new lines from your play; she cries. I wait
till I hear you both asleep. I write:
the couple sleeps.
things that were beautiful about today (april 22nd)
- falling in love with the trees. the old ones that reached the tip of the sky and the young ones we planted (happy earth day!)
- watching the children with dancer eyes, the little girl with raspberry hair and rosy cheeks who smiled so often that I was convinced the world might not be so bad after all.
- feeling something I haven’t felt for a very long time.
I ache for you, recently,
for your skin to inch across the cold ground,
the shallow pores that veer your anatomy
into elder trees, arched like a sleeping willow
in alder groves and ivy spines awakening,
For the thesaurus to lend me words,
the language of hands writing letters across the bark,
at night, sometimes about love, but mostly death
and the fear of disorder, of displacing our tongues,
where my lines evaporate in mid air long before
they can smother the fire that is sprouting
from the forestry of your sleepy bones.