(no subject)
1.
i get a shirley temple at the train station that better resembles a storage hangar. it's a structure more inclined towards ice cream stands than nineteenth century doorjambs. i don't know what to do with my hands, so i muddy my fingers with newsprint. i compose text messages in made-up shorthand, a language two parts giddy and one part desperation. when i think my heart will burst from the changing of the placards, you appear. boston is the first witness to the opening strains of this, of us. the red sox lose, and you probably miss a show for the ages back in baltimore, but neither of us care so much.
we go to copp's hill and invade on a storytime group whose members sit splayed between the graves of soldiers and fishermen. the black birds pick in the grass, high above the swatch of harbor to the right. we walk through the common and talk about writing and science and plans. the public library has got some exhibit of an obscure german illustrator and you take his name down for me, like with this information i can invite him to a dinner party. i change dresses before dinner. afterwards, two irish coffees and tremont street, we walk in front of my parents, laughing when we accidentally hold hands, or come close to it.
you lend me your jacket on lansdowne street when it begins to rain. you can hear the disappointment from inside fenway, the rain drops falling like poised spittle into untended beer cups. i'm not happy about the music but you're a sport and play pool with the boys while i try to plan our escape.
2.
we execute only one high five during the game, when david ortiz issues the game-clincher. we both recognize the sanctity of such things, i think, and i smile. this is the only game we'll witness all season where the crowd has enough wind in its sails to sing an enthusiastic sweet caroline. you don't understand the song selection, of course, and i smile thinking about all the sacred rugby rites that i know will someday baffle me.
cape cod is deserted because the public is strict about its preference for a temperate tide. we don't care as much and so the atlantic laps at our ankles and turns blood to slush. the surfers wear full wet suits, some don head gear. after a brief tussle with the carcass of a crab, we sit to watch them. we're still learning things about each other and the drive through yarmouth, dennis and brewster are proof of it. you've won the top scouting award for navigation in australia. i'm not even .0000001% surprised. at the general store we buy postcards and fudge, glasses and blueberry soap. we take it all home and walk for tapas, finish off sangria with rocksolid chocolate cake.
then i quit my job and spend the next two days whispering over the phone to you on the floor of hotel bathrooms that my employer has paid for.
3.
maryland that month will never cross my mind as anything other than scorched - scorched, despite the green suburbs, despite ceiling fans working overtime to thwart body heart. i'm good for the winter, i promise you. but in the summertime, i'll only make you warmer.
we institute the tradition of maker's mark in the kitchen when you cook fajitas. i offer bourbon and bagel chip commentary for your efforts. i'll never open that bottle right, the red waxy shards forever scuttling into the corners of the tile, underneath the sink.
we hold hands, looking at the way that judith prepares to slice off holofernes' head. there are giant cicadas and african beetles dead, pinned, held beneath glass. some family's old coat of arms hangs useless above the doorway.
during the days i filled up my life when you worked. i tried to justify the hours, tried to smile at old people walking dogs, tried to stop for kids and lemonade stands. i wrote or walked or shuffled around the smithsonians. i saw teddy roosevelt's presidential remains while you worked. i saw the woolworth's lunch counter, and whale vertebrae.
lullaby & exile is the song that defines it, really. m ward and his frog-voiced harmony, how love will get you in the end. i like how he generalizes love, how it'll happen to your sister and doctor and the postman. i think maybe we listened to this more than anything. the sentiment resonates strongly in our heart chambers and bones.
4.
the church group sings from the top of a flatbed truck, candles with paper wax catchers held aloft. we are too busy being enamored with gambling tickets you peel instead of scratch. it's a much more satisfying procedure and it's conducive to these patriotic carnivals i sell you on. at quarter to ten, they shut off the lights beaming neon pools onto teenagers and basketball courts, leaving the moths in disarray. we sit on the grass and the pennsylvania mosquitos are either too young or too stupid - they don't bobble over the grass to find our legs or shoulders. people bring blankets and i kept half-hoping somebody will take pity on us and share a portion of one. but the grass is good enough. blakely puts on a fireworks show for the county-ages, the explosions clocking in at a good twenty minutes. when we think it's over we're wrong, by now the gunpowder smell has made its way to us from the high school football field ceremoniously dedicated to some fabled coach.
at the cottage we stand around, hands on hips, surveying the lake that is unimpressed with the holiday. we take turns scuffing away the dirt on an old aluminum sign of my grandfather's. it is a sign whose underbelly probably houses a thousand creatures of the dark, you tell me. you say it some way other than that. we buy ice cream fresh from the dairy farm that boasts two silos and baby calves. i drive us home with one hand as we listen to bob dylan.
5.
you pick me up at the same time every day, give or take five minutes. i stand outside the gates of your workplace's campus, under trees whose leaves no caterpillar or gypsy moth has eaten pin-sized holes out of. when i've got a few minutes, i stand around imagining what it'll look like in the autumn. i live out of a bag, and i live out of your second drawar. i live out of your room and your temporary-house. i live out of maryland, and it sounds so odd to say. but i would keep doing it, if i had to. i always would.
i get a shirley temple at the train station that better resembles a storage hangar. it's a structure more inclined towards ice cream stands than nineteenth century doorjambs. i don't know what to do with my hands, so i muddy my fingers with newsprint. i compose text messages in made-up shorthand, a language two parts giddy and one part desperation. when i think my heart will burst from the changing of the placards, you appear. boston is the first witness to the opening strains of this, of us. the red sox lose, and you probably miss a show for the ages back in baltimore, but neither of us care so much.
we go to copp's hill and invade on a storytime group whose members sit splayed between the graves of soldiers and fishermen. the black birds pick in the grass, high above the swatch of harbor to the right. we walk through the common and talk about writing and science and plans. the public library has got some exhibit of an obscure german illustrator and you take his name down for me, like with this information i can invite him to a dinner party. i change dresses before dinner. afterwards, two irish coffees and tremont street, we walk in front of my parents, laughing when we accidentally hold hands, or come close to it.
you lend me your jacket on lansdowne street when it begins to rain. you can hear the disappointment from inside fenway, the rain drops falling like poised spittle into untended beer cups. i'm not happy about the music but you're a sport and play pool with the boys while i try to plan our escape.
2.
we execute only one high five during the game, when david ortiz issues the game-clincher. we both recognize the sanctity of such things, i think, and i smile. this is the only game we'll witness all season where the crowd has enough wind in its sails to sing an enthusiastic sweet caroline. you don't understand the song selection, of course, and i smile thinking about all the sacred rugby rites that i know will someday baffle me.
cape cod is deserted because the public is strict about its preference for a temperate tide. we don't care as much and so the atlantic laps at our ankles and turns blood to slush. the surfers wear full wet suits, some don head gear. after a brief tussle with the carcass of a crab, we sit to watch them. we're still learning things about each other and the drive through yarmouth, dennis and brewster are proof of it. you've won the top scouting award for navigation in australia. i'm not even .0000001% surprised. at the general store we buy postcards and fudge, glasses and blueberry soap. we take it all home and walk for tapas, finish off sangria with rocksolid chocolate cake.
then i quit my job and spend the next two days whispering over the phone to you on the floor of hotel bathrooms that my employer has paid for.
3.
maryland that month will never cross my mind as anything other than scorched - scorched, despite the green suburbs, despite ceiling fans working overtime to thwart body heart. i'm good for the winter, i promise you. but in the summertime, i'll only make you warmer.
we institute the tradition of maker's mark in the kitchen when you cook fajitas. i offer bourbon and bagel chip commentary for your efforts. i'll never open that bottle right, the red waxy shards forever scuttling into the corners of the tile, underneath the sink.
we hold hands, looking at the way that judith prepares to slice off holofernes' head. there are giant cicadas and african beetles dead, pinned, held beneath glass. some family's old coat of arms hangs useless above the doorway.
during the days i filled up my life when you worked. i tried to justify the hours, tried to smile at old people walking dogs, tried to stop for kids and lemonade stands. i wrote or walked or shuffled around the smithsonians. i saw teddy roosevelt's presidential remains while you worked. i saw the woolworth's lunch counter, and whale vertebrae.
lullaby & exile is the song that defines it, really. m ward and his frog-voiced harmony, how love will get you in the end. i like how he generalizes love, how it'll happen to your sister and doctor and the postman. i think maybe we listened to this more than anything. the sentiment resonates strongly in our heart chambers and bones.
4.
the church group sings from the top of a flatbed truck, candles with paper wax catchers held aloft. we are too busy being enamored with gambling tickets you peel instead of scratch. it's a much more satisfying procedure and it's conducive to these patriotic carnivals i sell you on. at quarter to ten, they shut off the lights beaming neon pools onto teenagers and basketball courts, leaving the moths in disarray. we sit on the grass and the pennsylvania mosquitos are either too young or too stupid - they don't bobble over the grass to find our legs or shoulders. people bring blankets and i kept half-hoping somebody will take pity on us and share a portion of one. but the grass is good enough. blakely puts on a fireworks show for the county-ages, the explosions clocking in at a good twenty minutes. when we think it's over we're wrong, by now the gunpowder smell has made its way to us from the high school football field ceremoniously dedicated to some fabled coach.
at the cottage we stand around, hands on hips, surveying the lake that is unimpressed with the holiday. we take turns scuffing away the dirt on an old aluminum sign of my grandfather's. it is a sign whose underbelly probably houses a thousand creatures of the dark, you tell me. you say it some way other than that. we buy ice cream fresh from the dairy farm that boasts two silos and baby calves. i drive us home with one hand as we listen to bob dylan.
5.
you pick me up at the same time every day, give or take five minutes. i stand outside the gates of your workplace's campus, under trees whose leaves no caterpillar or gypsy moth has eaten pin-sized holes out of. when i've got a few minutes, i stand around imagining what it'll look like in the autumn. i live out of a bag, and i live out of your second drawar. i live out of your room and your temporary-house. i live out of maryland, and it sounds so odd to say. but i would keep doing it, if i had to. i always would.