i knew for a long while that the summer was over and now it really is. i only vaguely remember the way it began: pavements covered in blossom, lounging in the field under the stars, watching sun setting above our heads.
there was majorca.
there, in the evening, i scoured every shop for a memento to give to you. i found a wooden statue, obscurely sexual, sensuous, expressive: two figures entwined in an embrace, their sleek polished bodies holding each other. the male form bent round the female: side view of him, the woman – face on.
you didn’t like it very much and i can’t say i blame you: you had enough trouble reading a spy in the house of love. of all her men, the only one you remember is allan: the one she married, the father figure in her life. what of the others?
———- a blank.
can’t say i agree.
i had a dream of the english boy night before last: his birthday party conjured itself in a palace. i was with you of course. then, somehow i was speaking to him. back to you, fawning over the flowers Y’s girl had. and then a girl attendant handed me a huge box of those very flowers. scribbled on the box was “i love you”. from him.
still, those are only dreams. and i don’t mind that.
Posted in chapters of my life
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he did not recieve the text. good. so we chat. friends, not lovers, that we are: i question him of things and he shares his good news with me. at midnight. not that i didn’t ask him to, but he doesn’t bother informing you. funny?
relieved, i don’t think of the saved blushes and the heat does not rise to my cheeks: it doesn’t need to.
a sigh escapes like a fly through the open window, its wings no longer beating against the cold clear pane of glass.
phone on, i wait to hear a beep. from you or him, it hardly seems to matter.
i sleep lightly as of late, or as of early. since our trio of sleepover nights, it’s been better, but sometimes, i will wake up in the night and think you are with me, curled up on the floor.
no longer an insomniac, i don’t know how to classify myself. i want a tidy name to sum it all up. there isn’t one.
i’m on the edge right now and it’s nothing to do with the pair of you. my future lies within these very moments, encapsulated in the smell of old books and pheromones surging.
i call the number. it is busy. so i call again.
right now, all i care about is that the phone is picked up and they listen to me, if even for a while.
i heard a no. loud and clear, like a dead weight going into cold blue-black water.
deep, guttural sounds of a storm brewing. but the storm is already over. we lay on the deck and count the stars.
Posted in chapters of my life
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and with the blurring quality of a spanish sunset
i ought to stop dreaming of the miracle
they [nora knows] don’t happen ever
no fool but i expects
a man to build a roof over the pedestal
everyone knows statues have no eyes to worry about rain
sleep like trauma washing over me washing dishes
as if salt could wash away a man-made stain
what call you this
a fading jaded tan line of black bags under the eyes
what am i now
a landing strip stripped bare so there!
Posted in excerpts
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through my paperround last year i met a wonderful man. he used to walk his dog as i’d deliver papers and we started talking around the time i started writing this blog. i think he’s 82: he must have mentioned it a while back. and i’m afraid there’s nothing literary about him: his existence is one of uncouth coutesy.
i quit the paperround a while back now but i still see him every sunday. nine o’clock in the morning, like church. he’s my little christian connection: even S is nowhere near taking his place. he gave me a bible with a picture of him in his youth stuck at the back, so that i remember him. secretly, i think, he believes that it will help me find him in heaven: he believes i will go there after all.
to my friends, this man is “the old man”. to me, he is much more than that. it may be true that i meet him every sunday partly because i feel like it’s my obligation, but also because somewhere beneath my skin there’s a tendon that connects me to him.
his wife died last night. or the night before that. and there’s no more words because i’m hurting for him. because how can one even begin to describe his pain?
i had made them a card only this march: they celebrated their 60th wedding annivesary.
sometimes he told me he wondered if she ever loved him but i know that was only because he loved her more than anything else. ever.
and it’s a little late for him to tell her, but i hope she knew. i think she knew.
Posted in chapters of my life
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i won’t wait on you,
but not because i don’t want to:
maybe i would have done on any other day—
that’s not to say that i don’t hate
standing at the train station waving at a departing train.
it’s not me, you understand?
in me there’s always an impulse to chase it.
just water, baby, to chase it.
just water, a silent drizzle of impending rain:
it’ll wash the world off your shirt—
and i will smell crisp cotton again.
Posted in excerpts
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