beyond the sea
la mer, a bercé mon coeur pour la vie
It follows so close that it
makes me afraid at times.
I tell you this, and you look
up at me, expecting more and
prolonging the embarrassment
of my admission. I try to disguise
the fact that I am eating canned
pears from a tin, but the syrup
encrusted in the corner of my
mouth is powerful evidence,
and since I cannot feign innocent,
I feign ignorant, which is much
the same thing.
I shrug.
You press your hands into the orange
mineral dust on the floors. The house
smells like chemical paint and camphor,
which makes me anxious,
like I am on a train, waiting for my
stop, but no one is calling out the
names of the stations. That same
taste in my mouth of cold coffee
and styrofoam.
I lap up the blood from a
disintegrated hangnail and
try to elaborate.
The song, it's always there,
in one way or another.
It's Django this time, but it might as well
be Darin or Goodman. I doubt you will ever
interpret its bleaker tones the way I do. Too
often, our conversations seem like a collection
of contradictory eye-witness reports, rough drafts
on loose leaf paper.
happy we'll be beyond the sea
and never again, I'll go sailing.
Impossible, you mutter, but I nearly miss the
prefix. You are disentangling a mosquito net.
It's out of context and connects with some
phylogenetic memory of cyclic fevers and
anemia, but I can appreciate your absolute logic.
bye bye sailing, move on out captain.
(Drowning, don't you know, it feels like more likefalling? There's a circular irony to it, and then
no more sailing, no more sailing.)
It follows, I repeat, because only conviction
can reestablish the distribution of power,
and I am beginning to suspect that I am
either lying or have lost the ability to
distinguish memory from nostalgia.
You shift into seiza. The pearls of bone at your knees
must be grinding into the tile, but only the knuckles of
your fingers are animate, folding around the net.
Your face projects wisdom and sympathy.
I just don't see that as a possibility, you tell me.