Archive for March, 2010

the olive-green parka swallowed her whole
and her feet overflowed the
blue moccasins she wore without socks
on a raw chill rainy day.

she shuffled into the
liquor store and wheezed.
her cigarette was still smoking
outside in the butt can.

she stood by the vodka
a long, long time,
counting her money.

she bought and paid and
dragged her moccasins away
and i saw her
before the door even closed
twisting the cap off
and lifting the paper bag
to her mouth. halfway
to the car, a plume
of exhaust rising from her lips
and from the tailpipe,
she dug in her parka
pocket
for another cigarette.

the car door banged.
the engine backfired.
the man in the driver’s
seat lifted the bottle
and she lit her smoke.

i paid for my own bottle of oblivion
and left.

sleep
like a rock
like a river
like a baby.

we can’t say
what sleep is
we just
talk around the
lack of it
or envy those
with no lack.

you told me
in the army
you learned
to sleep wherever
and whenever you
could.

i believe it.

what i also
believe
is that you never
woke back up.
it wasn’t sleep
you learned the
trick of, it was
waking you forgot.

i tried
everything–

tickles
pinches
shouting
loving
fearing
stamping
fire
flood
earthquake

but i was
only one of
those pesky
dreams.

now you’re sleepwalking
somewhere else.

and me?

i never lost
the trick of
wakefulness.
when they bury
me, i’ll still
be watching.

oh, sleep
sleep like
whatever
sleep is like.

i don’t trust you.
that’s why
i wait for dawn.

dear virgin,

you’re still
smiling. still
calm, and
blue-robed
and still
immaculata.

you’re
still
a nightlight.

i am still unable
to sleep
even though
my eyes are deserts
and my back, well,
and then there’s
my heart.

work was
work, screaming
kids and
jumpy mothers
and men
yeah, men
who piss on the sides
of toilet seats.

but i’m home.
four walls,
and you. i
tried to eat
but it was too dark
and then you
were the only thing
holding back
black curtains.

every time i
light another
smoke the shadows jump.
they have
shinydark teeth.

at least you’re
keeping the
werewolves out.

for five ninety nine
and a replacement bulb
that’s pretty good.

you’re not talking tonight.
it’s okay.

i’ve got enough to say
for both of us.

oh nuestra senora
my lady
please
just keep listening.

dear virgin,

let’s talk.

we have it kind
of rough
down here.
we just can’t seem
to stop hurting
ourselves
and everyone
and everything else.

i’d ask your intercession
but look how well that turned
out the first time.
i’d ask you to explain,
but that language
barrier, it’s pretty
high, and your bossdaddy
has this thing about
vengeance for questions.

so there’s nothing, really
except sometimes
i look at the nightlight
your painted face
those blue robes
your calm smile
and i want to smash you
and i want you to hold me
all at once.

i don’t know how
you could help.
maybe i’m better off

just lighting another smoke
and talking to
a goddamn nightlight
while i wait for
dawn.

i never used to see dawn unless
i was still drunk, or coming home

in the hush where garbage trucks
bangclattergrowl
but oddly respectful,
like they’re in church.

nowadays
i get up
instant coffee
and a smoke
on the balcony
while red sun
comes up like
thunder.

when there’s rain
dawn sneaks up
on you, little pink
and orange feet
until you realize
you can see.

drunks and survivors
are dawn’s
welcoming committee.

other people
don’t know
what it is
to know,
really know,
you’ve survived another night.

hung the plant
in front of the bedroom window.
it’s gonna get
some sun at last.

finally unpacked those books.

took the dishes i’d never liked anyway,
and broke them one by one,
except the ones i took
to the thrift store
because they were yours.

got rid of that coffee cup,
the one you made me buy you.

donated all the fat clothes.

put furniture down near the dumpster
with a sign saying
“free”. wasn’t sure
if it meant the
goddamn couch,
or finally me.

the only thing left
is the shirt
that smells like you.

that i’ll keep
until the scent fades
then i’ll burn it.

i have plans for tulip bulbs
and a bookcase
and books that you
will never have seen.
dishes you never have
touched.

at the dumpster
that pile of free
gets smaller
and my pile of
free
gets bigger.

grab the keys
get in
let the dust roostertail
as the pedal hits the floor

every woman knows
the feeling. to be
gone, to vanish,
to head for that
horizon. every
woman thinks it.

they think men
do all the leaving.
what they don’t know
is why
we choose
so often
to stay.

but not her.
never again.
no brakes
don’t need them
just the
steering wheel
and the hum
of tires.

the woman
who runs
is the one
you’ll never
hit again.

funny to think
you can heal all at once
like the scab ripped away
pink and shiny
underneath
instead of raw.

funny to think a heart
can mend, between
one cigarette and
the next.

funny to think
something so huge
that destroyed you
can be past
like a killer wave
draining away
there’s wreckage,
yeah, but i’m
still breathing.

funny to think
i’m not just breathing
i’m actually…

am i?

happy.

i’m not laughing
but it’s funny
in that life-sucks
kind of way.
where you wake up
one morning,
drinking isn’t fun
anymore and the rest
of the world
is still rolling.
when you stretch
and see the sun
and realize you
can make it.

not just make it
but you can live.

yeah.
funny.

yeah.

you know, it’s ironic
the first time you
admit jealousy, wanting
me,
wanting to burn.

after you kept quiet
all this time, thinking
it was better for
you if you didn’t
admit it.

i’ll admit it.
i like knowing you
burn.

it makes my own
pain a little
less, in retrospect.

but only in retrospect.

you could have
said something
before and spared
both of us.

but i guess
that’s not
your style.

i lay in bed
and make lists
of all the reasons
to be happy
now that i don’t
live with
anyone.

i’m retired from
the unmerry
merry
go round
and it feels
good.

my friends say
“next time”
and i think
who would do this
twice?

like cutting off your
fingers;
once is
enough.

the list gets
longer
the longer i
live
without
anyone.

alone
is not
lonely.

at least
not for me.