[PART FIVE] - CLOSED
THE SOCIAL NETWORK KINK MEME
ASK THE MODS * FAQ * DISCUSSION * RESEARCH * FILL LIST * PART ONE * PART ONE (OVERFLOW) * PART TWO * PART TWO (OVERFLOW) * PART THREE * (PART THREE (OVERFLOW) * PART FOUR
GENERAL RULES;
IMPORTANT: please DO NOT post prompts about any non-public people as part of a prompt. for example: randi ( Read more... )
ASK THE MODS * FAQ * DISCUSSION * RESEARCH * FILL LIST * PART ONE * PART ONE (OVERFLOW) * PART TWO * PART TWO (OVERFLOW) * PART THREE * (PART THREE (OVERFLOW) * PART FOUR
GENERAL RULES;
IMPORTANT: please DO NOT post prompts about any non-public people as part of a prompt. for example: randi ( Read more... )
I.
It’s a pain, unrequited love. It stings, like a prick from a vaccine,
Because that’s what it does; it puts up a shield.
Eduardo knows because he’s got these shields-
Measles, Mumps, Mark-
Have a little bit and then never again.
Wardo, he’ll hear, sometimes, when he’s half asleep,
And he’ll turn over and realize it was the past
Calling to him from sleep; not reality, not now.
No one calls him that anymore.
It’s worse than that, right?
He never was friends with TB,
Hepatitis never diluted his shares down to nothing,
He never brought coffee to the library at 2am for diphtheria.
The needles go in and out, in and
Out. He relishes the feeling and smiles at the nurse,
As if to say, keep going, right there, yes.
Like he never got to say. He’s not sure she understands.
But this will be just the thing, the only thing.
What can you do with piles of money and no people,
But travel? But move through crowds and snap pictures
Of buildings and paintings and pigeons and people who don’t know
Anything about you?
What can you do with piles of anger and no one to listen,
But give it time? And shed your clothes, and drop your bag,
Your stupid bag your father made you carry,
And buy your own backpack?
II.
Eduardo checks his email one last time,
His bag by the door, his milk down the sink,
His garbage in the hall. Just one final look before he’s off the grid;
There’s something not surprising about a note from Mark.
Dustin says you’re leaving, and Eduardo knew he would.
Dustin says you’re not saying where, because he doesn’t know.
I know you’re upset, a little more than that.
I want to say I’m sorry, then say it. I’m sorry. Now that’s
Something. That’s something. I shouldn’t have let it get this far,
It’s not what I ever thought. They can agree on that.
I don’t know what to do, though. He has to leave.
He types a quick response, Courier New to look impersonal,
This email address is no longer in use.
The thing about a shield is, you still feel
Jostled, bruised; but dully,
Less, somehow.
Eduardo likes the window seat because he can see the clouds from above.
III.
He has found freedom in the way his jeans cling to his legs.
Ironic.
He looks in the mirror, a long crack down the middle,
Shared with other travelers milling about, vying for space at the sink,
And he likes what he sees.
No more khakis, no more suits that hang and suffocate,
No more shoulder bags and rings, no.
Jeans and t-shirts that speak for him and comfortable shoes,
Hair a little longer and moving just so. Cowl necks.
Big headphones. It’s silly, but he likes the smiles from strangers
On the train, on the street. People who don’t know him,
Maybe they want to, just from-
What? The way he looks? That’s new. It’s silly.
He smiles back and bares his neck.
He reads Dickens now, like he never was able to in Cambridge.
Did you know the convict was Pip’s benefactor?
He is gleeful at the discovery; is it Harvard’s fault or his own?
I knew that. That was definitely flirting, Eduardo thinks to himself
When he’s in a tiny WC with this guy who knew about Pip,
And this guy is like Eduardo, he thinks; he’s on a journey, and
This is their mutual rest stop. Does he know Eduardo’s benefactor, too?
And if there’s something awakened in Eduardo, it’s only that he
Always knew it would be. Money, as they say, can
buy a trip around the world, cut ties from parents,
Jeans that fit. If this isn’t love, it must be happiness.
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He reads a book of poems and finds when there is
Estrangement, there is little peace
What is peace, exactly?
The train rumbles through mountains, chalets, goats,
The most delicious dairy, and he’s from Brazil.
There are other travelers, people he thinks must know about Pip,
As if that were his new litmus test.
No curly hair, no chewed-on lips, only
Has this one read Dickens? Will this one smile back?
Eduardo meets a woman who certainly knows about the convict,
And also she is beautiful, objectively, and he thinks for a fleeting second,
This is it. But they kiss and the moment passes and he thinks,
This is not it. This is part of it.
So he finds a postcard, a pasture; it means peace to Eduardo,
And he sends it to Mark with an E on the back
And a postmark from Switzerland, and if he gets it, perhaps he will know
What it means, at least as much as it means anything.
In Prague, he buys a few postcards and chooses a church.
I have never felt more Jewish and another E,
And off it goes, not meaning much,
Except some memory of when he once felt united.
He thinks about the wall when he’s in Berlin, but it seems
Too important for a postcard, so he chooses a picture of
Sally Bowles. I’m gay; was that ever clear?
And the truth is, he’s not sure if it ever was.
V.
He feels himself soften at the edges, he feels
Like an iceberg becoming floes,
Jittery and jangly and moving towards entropy,
But full of heat.
It’s living out of one bag, it’s letting his hair grow
And swoop and fall where it may, it’s not worrying
About what anyone else is thinking of him,
Only what everyone else is thinking about art, and books, and life.
The weather comes and goes, money moves hand to hand,
Computers sit in corners, and Eduardo avoids them. He has pens and paper
And books and postcards filling his pockets, taking his thoughts,
Sending them. Even his watch winds up, back and forth,
Every morning, keeping the tick, tick, tick. An analog life.
In Russia, he drinks vodka until his eyes blur and
He dances. He sways and stomps his feet and smiles;
There’s loud singing in Russian he can’t understand,
But he fakes it, and it’s joyous.
He thinks of himself one year ago, two years ago, three years ago,
In high school, his tenth birthday, his fifth birthday.
When has he ever felt that he could be here,
But now? This is the first time he has ever felt free.
VI.
In India, he is new.
He drinks tea and an old man teaches him yoga poses.
He walks down busy streets past call centers that remind him
Of tech offices and finance and corporate America,
And he wonders what might come next.
It once seemed Sisyphean; make one thing, and
The next must be better. Make this much money, and
The next must be greater. Fall this hard, and
A greater fall is sure to follow.
It’s difficult to be discouraged in downward facing dog,
The careful weave of the mat beneath his hands and feet,
The smell of an old woman’s curry stewing in the next room,
The belief that this is enough. That more is possible. That less is okay.
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Eduardo finds a copy center and gives a teenage boy
An American dollar bill for 30 minutes online.
The computer beeps and bops like it used to in Miami,
Taking him closer to his inbox, emails written to someone who has changed.
There are hundreds and hundreds, as he expected,
And he scrolls quickly through them,
Investment opportunity, Alumni Weekly, Save 50%,
Mzuckerberg, mzuckerberg, mzuckerberg, on and on
And it’s not as he had expected, not this many, not all waiting
to be opened, in India.
Okay, Mark says. You may not get this.
But I need to send it.
The emails begin before Eduardo sent his first postcard.
Each missive from Mark is an apology; a series, from basic
I’m sorry s to longer explorations
Of feelings, which make Eduardo shake his head. Feelings?
You were not my only friend, but you were a great friend,
And I was not. For that, specifically, I am sorry. -M
Eduardo’s ice floes keep melting. It feels dangerous
To continue reading, to track through days that have passed.
I got a postcard from Switzerland today. Maybe you
Are reading these emails, after all? -M
And Eduardo says aloud, I’m reading now, Mark.
The room is too full of the click of typing for anyone to hear.
After Berlin, Mark says, I didn’t know, which is hard for me to type,
Let alone admit. But, I didn’t know.
And, I felt inadequate then,
How can I feel anything different now?
Later, Maybe you’re really not reading these emails,
Which I think is my hope, at this point.
And, I miss the sound of your laugh,
And the shape of your neck, and your hand at my back.
VIII.
Eduardo sends one final postcard, Thank you
For the emails. Dayenu! -E The postmark is China, but
The card is one he picked up in Jerusalem,
The wailing wall, men davening, prayers sent upward
For the restoration of the temple, for
Next year, in Jerusalem.
Eduardo remembers Passover with his grandparents,
reciting the Haggadah, and it’s the only bit of religion he ever understood.
If He had split the sea for us.
If He had led us through on dry land.
If He had drowned our oppressors.
If He had provided for our needs in the wilderness for 40 years.
If He had fed us manna. Dayenu.
It would have been enough. What is enough?
Eduardo’s backpack holds bits and scraps,
A tiny, carved elephant and a stand for chopsticks and
A bag of gravel from Japan.
He wears a string of beads around his neck and runs
Them smoothly through his fingers when he sits.
Not prayer, exactly, but concentration,
On thankfulness, presence, and forgiveness.
He looks out the window of the airplane, over
The tops of the clouds,
And he’s able to think he might be going home.
It is enough.
IX.
Mark sits across from him at a table in a neutral space,
A coffee shop with not too many people and not too few,
A deep, dark wooden table between them
Reminiscent of the last time they saw each other, but warmer.
(Impossible to be colder.) Thank you for the
Postcards. Mark looks down, plays with his spoon,
And that hasn’t changed. What if nothing has changed?
Eduardo says, I’m different now.
Mark wears a shirt with buttons, blue,
And Eduardo can see his neck, the V where the shirt sits open,
And Mark’s eyes seem bluer than before,
And Mark says, I’m different, too.
You’re wearing a shirt, Mark. Eduardo smiles,
And points. You’re wearing jeans, Wardo.
The whir of the bean grinder behind him, and Wardo,
It’s all he can smell, coffee, which means he is really here.
I’m sorry. They both say it. One after the other,
And at the same time, and in succession.
Why is the ghost in the room that floats away,
with the last of Wardo’s shield,
Until he leans across the table and takes Mark’s hand in his.
It shakes, a bit, an internal buzz. And Wardo looks at Mark,
And sees wideness. It might sound insane to say, Wardo starts,
To the youngest billionaire. But,
You are more than enough.
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Well, all kind of love
Hurts and hurts and hurts, unrequited or not,
Eduardo realizes, but is so pleased
To be unguarded.
Free to wrap arms around Mark and squeeze,
And to kiss his neck and smell whatever
Sweet bitterness is there for him to lick,
And to let their faces align and breath trade between them,
For Mark to say, I never thought,
I would ever, And for Eduardo to know what he means,
As much as he means anything.
For Mark to say, You are the most and you are limitless,
Which is an impossibility. And anyone who doesn’t know it,
Eduardo thinks of his father, of expectations, and how much
Money is worth, when there is warmth
And reconciliation. Pai, I am here
When you need me. And it makes his mother cry, hopeful.
And anyone who doesn’t know it, is wrong.
Somehow, the I’m sorrys have become
I love yous and Eduardo couldn’t say when
it became true, but he could say, You make me laugh
And together, they do.
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I just love how Wardo sets out to find himself, leaving everything behind because he doesn' think he has anything left; then ends up coming back and finds Mark, again. It's a loop in some sense but it only works out because they are both different.
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