March 2009
22 posts
loved me more
Whenever I can tell you’re lying, whenever you look at me with that face, whenever you leave your hands cold in your lap, I compare you, heartlessly, wrongfully, to those who came before, now a bevy of beauties who surely loved me more than you do, though they did not.
first impression
She sat like a queen, spoke like a senator, moved like she played lacrosse all her years. He would perhaps stumble or joke too quickly or laugh too loudly and the moment would be lost. What did they always say? You only have one chance to make a first impression.
that song
When he played that song, no matter where he was, no matter what he was doing, no matter what the clouds looked like, or how the stars sparkled, or how the girls looked at him, or what the sun appeared as—now a giant pink dew drop—he was happy.
the old suit
The suit soaked in the rain, its pockets filling, its kerchief floating out the fold, its buttons shining wet and new. Now the clouds cleared and the sun baked it dry, leaving its colors faded, its cuffs wrinkled, its lapels drooping lugubriously, just the way it was before it rained.
to sit
There wasn’t anything to do now but sit, so sit he did. The sun walked up the blue dome of sky and sent the moon out behind him, the moon with his face now grimacing, now grinning, now solemn and still, the moon with a train of glitter in stars.
the lights
There was that dim light, that pale yellow spill from the end of a bulb with a blue straw hat. There was that bright white light of mornings in the kitchen window, the first day of school. And there was that light you could see dark in, dull and gray.
the baby
Hello baby, baby with jewel-blue eyes, like all babies born new, hello. Hello there, you. We’ll wrap you up and rock you softly, ‘till sleeping sweetly, safe as houses, we’ll window watch for your good morning. We’ll call you baby and you’ll coo hello, hello, you’ll coo, like babies do.
the cry
It had been a long time in coming, like the swollen soot clouds of a coming storm, like the too-ripe fruit ready to fall, like the sun baking chocolate dirt desperate to bloom. So she let it come, the slow wet rising reaching her eyes, beginning to fall and fall.
the reckoning
I found the card by the window and the suitcase by the door. I found the number in your handwriting, the picture in your drawer, the charm in your front coat pocket. I found the whispers in your ear, the kisses on your lips, the long looks in your eyes.
the good boy
He’s a good boy. He wears the footed pajamas his mother made, blue with a red collar, like Superman maybe. He plays the piano while his Grandma listens over the phone from Wyoming. He plays four square with the neighbor girl, he calls his mother “mother,” and he never lies.
time machine
We saw Christmas, 1987.
Dad was wearing big glasses. Mom had bangs. Laura wasn’t there, not yet. There was us boys though, in miniature faces and fingers, earnest and giggling and innocent. Grandpa was alive again, telling tales about summers in Ecuador. We watched in wonder until the tape stopped.
left
He left a note for his folks, a poem for his girl, a photo for his friends. He pointed his rusted hood ornament east and drove, drove until the mountains flattened into fields, until the sun burst into moon, until the needle was curled up against the “E,” fast asleep.
alright
Maybe he’d be alright. Maybe there was a happy ending yet to be written. Maybe Kate and Jack would end up together in season six. Maybe alone didn’t mean lonely. Maybe it would start raining in sheets and never let up. Maybe God would forgive him. Maybe He already had.
the dog and the ghost
They wrestled in a spotlight of moon, under a conifer, between the hills of the field. One would parry and make to retreat, the other would thrust and dash to strike. The snow broke under the feet of the one, and the air wrinkled at the breath of the other.
le rêveur
Always with the dreaming, the make-believe, the pretend-to-be. Never with the thinking, the make-it-happen, the things-as-they-are. When others saw rain, he saw showers. When others saw snow, he saw feathers. When others saw darkness, he saw the Milky Way, a sneeze of white light he met with God bless you.
the spoliation
We cleared the bookshelves of precious tomes, yanked the curtains from their rings, scattered shattered shards of statues on the floor. We tore the canvases of paintings, overturned the thick wooden tables, sent the silverware clattering into corners. There was an occupied birdcage here too, but that we left alone.
the shoes
He’d retired them after the Jenna Sessions dance party, where he’d famously gone from his toprock to swipes and a boomerang float while “Ice Ice Baby” pumped in the dark. He remembered watching his laces dance under the lights.
He didn’t feel like he could wear them again after that.
the movies
Here was the stuff of dreams: front and center in an empty theater, a hot grilled cheese sandwich cozied up to kettle-cooked potato chips, the tray anchored in the armrest by a Styrofoam cup of foamy root beer. Presently, the screen illuminated, and the lines thereupon were lovely to behold.
the lonely
I would like to say: thanks for the lonely. Thanks for the ridiculous parties, where I don’t say anything to anyone. Thanks for the nights jogging through what seems to me a ghost town. Thanks for the long car drives under skies of black, the only one on the road.
receipts
After the breakup, he’d found a box of receipts, kept for reasons he couldn’t remember, crinkled records of daisies, novels, magazines, rolls of film, chocolates, movie tickets, Italian restaurants, plane flights, jewelry, a guitar, tickets to Coldplay, Blind Pilot, Andrew Bird, and the ring. He’d have to get a refund.
she said
I love you, she said, in the snow, under the moonlight, outside her father-in-law’s house. I love you, she said, on a jittery camera, with the wind blowing outside, from Europe. I love you, she said, in the dark, over the phone, in the early morning hours. I love you.
the café west
Next to Labor and Delivery is the hospital café. Under white lights, a red-eyed new father eats a beef chimichanga, a family with small children whispers nervously over too-hot chicken fingers, a woman with bad news picks at a green salad. The patients keep coming, and the cooks keep cooking.