and in your heart lie roots, like small lions
I. The year I turned seven we had this gate, between the fenced backyard and open front yard, a beautiful iron lattice gate, about eight inches off the ground. And the yard was full of pear trees, different kinds of apple trees, and for a couple of years our sandwiches were slathered with apple butter.
And the night before I turned seven I found a couple of holes in the lattice work and hooked my feet into them, rocked and rocked and rocked and watched the night sky.
I made a wish. I am not sure I remember it. But I think it came true.
II. Sometimes, I [you] would beat m[e]yself up for living too easily in my regrets or in my fantasies, and never, ever, ever in the here and now.
And later I would realize that longing is built into my nature. It's as natural as fucking. As natural as eating. The once-and-then and the someday-maybe and the here-and-now coexist quite easily in the everyday.
III. Watery autumn sunlight. Hospital windows. My muddy shoes (I needed to see where you would sleep for the rest of my life) squeak on the linoleum. My words stuck in my throat. Yours did not, did they ever? Like the sound of metal splattering from your rusty flowers, flowing freely and molten hot.
And then when I started I could not stop.
IV. We were driving to Vermont, and I had never been there. But I was only going this time because of the summer, because of the flow of it, because of her. I was thinking too much: mind jumping ahead to my task for the weekend, and sliding back to previous weekends, to problems and people that were, then, way out of my reach. I was drowning out the conversation in the car. I was frustrated.
But the colors of the leaves had just come, and it hadn't started raining, and the sun had just set - context context context, forget it: when I looked at the trees they were like torches, glowing against the purple night air.
I said Shut Up. I turned off the gears and cogs in my fevered, frustrated brain and said Enjoy This Moment, this thing right in front of you: it will be one of the best of your life. And I couldn't, because of the raw red kernel you placed in my heart.
And sometime before that there was a visit to the farm: hot for October, golden sunlight stretching across the fields like the skin of a drum.
Once on my birthday, I dressed as a cat. My tail was broken and I carried it around.
Once, on my birthday, you grabbed me by my neck and pressed me against the grandfather clock and stopped it. And you told me that the next time I Fucked Up, you'd break it with me.
Once on my birthday my roommate found me a leftover piece of cake from dinner and a single candle, which I blew out just before midnight. I wished that I could lose you, but I never could, and some wishes cannot.
And the night before I turned seven I found a couple of holes in the lattice work and hooked my feet into them, rocked and rocked and rocked and watched the night sky.
I made a wish. I am not sure I remember it. But I think it came true.
II. Sometimes, I [you] would beat m[e]yself up for living too easily in my regrets or in my fantasies, and never, ever, ever in the here and now.
And later I would realize that longing is built into my nature. It's as natural as fucking. As natural as eating. The once-and-then and the someday-maybe and the here-and-now coexist quite easily in the everyday.
III. Watery autumn sunlight. Hospital windows. My muddy shoes (I needed to see where you would sleep for the rest of my life) squeak on the linoleum. My words stuck in my throat. Yours did not, did they ever? Like the sound of metal splattering from your rusty flowers, flowing freely and molten hot.
And then when I started I could not stop.
IV. We were driving to Vermont, and I had never been there. But I was only going this time because of the summer, because of the flow of it, because of her. I was thinking too much: mind jumping ahead to my task for the weekend, and sliding back to previous weekends, to problems and people that were, then, way out of my reach. I was drowning out the conversation in the car. I was frustrated.
But the colors of the leaves had just come, and it hadn't started raining, and the sun had just set - context context context, forget it: when I looked at the trees they were like torches, glowing against the purple night air.
I said Shut Up. I turned off the gears and cogs in my fevered, frustrated brain and said Enjoy This Moment, this thing right in front of you: it will be one of the best of your life. And I couldn't, because of the raw red kernel you placed in my heart.
And sometime before that there was a visit to the farm: hot for October, golden sunlight stretching across the fields like the skin of a drum.
Once on my birthday, I dressed as a cat. My tail was broken and I carried it around.
Once, on my birthday, you grabbed me by my neck and pressed me against the grandfather clock and stopped it. And you told me that the next time I Fucked Up, you'd break it with me.
Once on my birthday my roommate found me a leftover piece of cake from dinner and a single candle, which I blew out just before midnight. I wished that I could lose you, but I never could, and some wishes cannot.