He loved me when he was drunk. There was a simple equation at work, not hard to follow: the drunker he was, the more he loved me. He grinned red-faced on that June night in his corner of the backseat of the cab. The red-faced grin: the closest thing to love I'd come to know on his face.
In last night's dream I could run pretty fast:
tenth place in the 5k that involved climbing
wobbly circus ladders through plastic sheeting.
I did not stop for water. When I got home,
Lady Gaga received me well in my bed.
Then I drove five hours north to see you in
Montreal, a place in which neither of us has
The busker, August 2013, MASS MoCA
It doesn't take much for me to decide, at long stupid last, that there is no God.
A dog skull does the trick, this afternoon. I'm cured.
The dog no bigger than a large cat leaps onto the couch into the same space and at the same moment I am reaching for--what? Who knows now. The puppy's small dense skull collides with my left eye socket. She is unscathed (the whole fucking world, even a dog, knows how to shake itself off and walk away untouched--pain is remarkably optional for many) but I reel from the impact.
The pain is a fresh pain, at least, something new. That triggers the tears I've been holding at bay for days. I press the heel of my hand to my brow, sobbing furiously and instantly. The pain as an isolated moment is not the issue. It's a dogpile of pain that won't let up, accompanied by self-commentary so vicious, I would drive a knife into the eye of anyone who spoke to my daughters in the same way.
First, grumble fuck a duck under your breath when you realize you have to spend another $19.95 for the right to correspond for two weeks with the creature you were in labor with for 40 hours straight, the baby who rendered your vagina a Level 5 Haz Mat situation, the daughter you have kept alive for 12 years despite poor culinary skills, the confounding little broad who stares at your left eyebrow with her mouth slightly agape when you try to explain that hygiene is really a very exciting thing. Yes. Fork over $19.95 to Bunk Notes for a third year in a row. Bunk Notes: the Official Hostage Converter for Summer Campers.
Time took care of most stories.
It was a massacre, I could not watch, you're
lucky to live so ever-far. I envy you that, I covet your stoic silence
and hate you for it and when I say hate you I mean love you with
the very last thread of what I have and what I am.
Senseless? Fine. I am weary of short words posing as sense.
To think I might have touched your face.
I still don't know what bravery means to you.
Here's what you'll do if you know
what's good for you. Pick a star,
nothing fancy, a five-and-dime
bit of glitter from a flyover galaxy.
Then weave the roses I like so much
into the indigo one or the other of us
calls sky (but never at the same time).
"Do you ever feel, like, RAGE?" I ask my mother today as she is hanging her new white cotton curtains.
"Oh dear," she says. "I really wish you had inherited more of my genes when it came to this stuff."
So your kid says to my kid
You look like a self-harmer
Your kid also says to my kid
You have perfect breasts
You're the only one who
can compete with my boobs.
Your kid also says to my kid
How do you stay so skinny?
Three-ten in the morning and I am thinking
about the two white-and-gray feathers.
You really should have seen them,
the way they were. Resting side
by side, parallel parked on the scorch
of asphalt desert stretching lost
behind the defunct community stage.
Get in my purse, you darling American Riviera. Just you get in my purse.