as grateful as i am that i have not
received a paper cut in these two
cautionary slice, i am that hockey
season’s over, and with it
that pale memory of yellow living
rooms, the walls the shade of
bags in hospitals, of trails left
by dying snails
and grey shadows of the sounds
of one last game on the TV cast into your eyes,
your eyes i couldn’t see through my
closed eyelids, your eyes i felt
once in awhile while we hid
that we were
holding hands beneath my sweater.
you trailed me home and kissed my
the part of me already dead.
you’re so long and dry, impatient. six
month stutter i outlined
and he erased, and
every time we’ve turned our
backs we have exposed
another white lace silhouette.
there is no one to tell.
he has gone, with promises of
ice skates, fingers linked as
they collapse on couches, under
pillows, the ceilings of dead
living rooms with walls whose
paint is chipped and split;
there is no wait.
the calendar is pencil, gaps
forged by passing
time and wrists.
well it finally happened
and i live alone.
it took me a year but it happened. just me, and gunther of course. and king julien & mort, who survived yet another move and who have been noticeably upset with me ever since. i’m giving them some time to cool off.
i keep hearing that things will get better, that i’ll have a fresh start. i’ve heard it so many times and fallen for the promise so many times that i have nearly abandoned all hope. i’ve never really been much of a “hopeful” girl anyway, but i am easily tricked. friends tricked me, boys tricked me. and my own blind faith in myself and in others tricked me, too.
so here i am.
alone, where i should have been a year ago. what i wanted so badly last february. but i didn’t really want it, not yet, not then. because i tried for something else when i should not have. and that’s that. i chose to do it, somewhere. somehow i made decisions.
so whatever. it’s not like i actually give a fuck, obviously, about anything, or about tricks or those boys or those friends or a hat or etymology or deconstruction or getting thrown under the bus. because to care now i’d have to have cared then. and they’d be kidding themselves if they even briefly thought i did. which they know as well as i do.
to giving up. but not quite there. i have no hope, maybe, but it isn’t hope i need. it all works out, it’s all good, whatever. hakuna matata, life goes on. i’m all right. i’m always all right. not that anyone asked.
they cared for me about as much
as i cared for them.
i’m sorry for all the bad things i said to you and about you and behind your back. you are cold and cruel, but you are lovely also. you didn’t hurt me; i hurt myself & tried to bring you with me.
you did not lie to me any more times than i lied to you or to myself. i was wrong. i am aware that i could have been different, if not for myself then for you, because you could not have been different.
you lose a day for three years out of four. you are unpredictable and dark, you are not tall. you are unfriendly. your shoes are thinning at the soles. denim shows the fat your legs are lacking. i could not love a thing about you, except that you exist. i still do. as you fade into the melting spring i will end up lonely and you will be a memory.
of walking in our winter clothes, of sunshine on cement. old coffee in a paper cup. i’m so much more than fine with that.
the memories are worth it and
i’m sorry. you are good.
a stampede broke
the glasses we used for
our seeing and drinking,
and i was already drunk:
my heart bled for a year.
on the arm of my couch
like it hadn’t
your tongue melted mine
with the lights from the streets,
sirens for earliest
you glue a piece,
one at a time, but glue is cheap
and i’m a liar.
you fall between two
a place they have both
been before, on
bleachers in snow
i fall for the
drywall, the bottles of wine
if you were not
you i would reach for
the gate would swing in.
you would vanish. if you
you i would find
lost pieces of bolts in the ice.
too many apartments
i haven’t seen lie
the frost, cut
like seams of highways
fighting for the lake
in winter we use
cloth to cut the ice on
the canal. i don’t
go home with writers,
awake instead until the spring,
counting reasons and
his footprints in the snow
this is always my favourite way to start the cold, wintery holiday season.
sit beside the breakfast table, think about your troubles, pour yourself a cup of tea and think about the bubbles.
you can take your teardrops and drop them in a teacup, take them down to the riverside and throw them over the side
to be swept up by a current then taken to the ocean to be eaten by some fishes who were eaten by some fishes and swallowed by a whale who grew so old he decomposed.
he died and left his body to the bottom of the ocean, now everybody knows that when a body decomposes the basic elements are given back to the ocean and the sea does what it oughtta and soon there’s salty water, not too good for drinking cause it tastes just like a teardrop.
so they run it through a filter and it comes out from a faucet, and pours into a teapot which is just about to bubble.
think about your troubles.