I don’t know why I can still feel you here, why I still observe the calendar with some urgency as if we are approaching anniversaries where we would surely need to meet and celebrate. Me in my horrible dress, you in that wrecked shirt. I give you up to the wind and the earth draws you back and spits you into my path. This is no great destiny, but you gave me comfort and purpose once.
Those voices in your head: not all of them are wrong, and on a hard night running, one of them is willing to take charge for a minute and help you power through. Life is so dismal these days. It isn’t bad to sometimes let it work for you.
He said nothing, and didn’t pull a pack from his pants pocket the way she’d hoped. Instead, he just stared at her, in that ravenous way of theirs, a way she’d seen up close only once before.
Breaking the painful silence, she snapped open the purse again and pulls a little cigarette and lighter from some secret compartment, and lit it herself with a knowing, blase click. As she inhaled, she considered that his exhaustion and despair left him vulnerable in a way she was not entirely prepared for.
But I used to be a horse and what it is to run along the water with all of yourself is what it is to live. There’s no metal in your mouth, no guiding hand at your cheek, no bag of sugar cubes or praise for your learned docility. You can pretend you forget what it is to live, but it’s just that, pretend.
She didn’t do anything more than the least required of her: be warm, be sweet, caper about a bit, and live. Standard.
But when what was was up and running, when there was blood and friction and motion to its form, we didn’t think about the skeletal. Nor the physical laws, the carbon dating that would explain what it was about us that was worthy of eons of study. We were in the thick of it.
My seat, the catbird with the view of the whole busy, tiny trattoria where three waitresses attended to the full crowd, had offered this same view to a thousand other would-be someones. The cobblestones outside had brought a thousand thousand past the doorway.
If it goes, you go, really, with it to the scrap heap. And the robot runs the work, while you nestle without pain into the witch jar of rusted nails and half-broken thumb tacks and sharp memories claimed to be forgotten. You dream in the lemonade, you start floating around with the chili pepper, you burn and reformulate.
How you strain to find the swiftness
to catch me.
How I struggle for the stillness
to be caught.
Don’t start leaving that body quite yet. I need it: there’s a laugh I left in its throat that I need returned. There’s a kiss caught in its lips, an embrace lodged in its arms, a love that runs along its spine like a silk ribbon and I can hardly be made to do without any of them.