Forty-seven.

I dreamed that you slept
with another woman and cried.
I was crying too. Our tears tasted
like watermelon and
you didn't ask me to forgive you.

Forty-six.

I don't want
to be practice.

I want to be the reason
for all that waiting.

Forty-five.

I've had plenty of practice
and mouthfuls of knowing better
but let's say that every square
inch of skin represents a mile
plus every word I don't breathe
into the receiver is a lie
multiplied by every time I said
that I would never do this again --
well then, I don't really know
what that equals
but something is or isn't
on fire here and I don't have
enough blankets.

Forty-four.

I want to grow flowers and herbs
in brightly coloured ceramics.
I want anything that makes these rooms
easier to breathe in.

Forty-three.

There are few things better
than a telephone ringing in the middle of the night
to remind you that you are still alive.
It's only a matter of time
before I don't have any secrets left.
I twist around in my sheets,
calculating the time zones and noting
that I don't remember which one Colorado is in.
Two hours behind and I'm too tired to deny anything.

When he's away, this town
is like every other ocean town.
The waves that lick the shore mean little.
I work, make my appointments, meet strangers,
spell out all of the things
that happen too soon or too late.
Today is an anniversary.
I've never been good at remembering these.
I can tell you that my father died on March 12th,
that my mother had her accident on September 8th,
that he kissed me for the first time on my birthday,
but I will not recognize monthly markings
except for maybe in afterthoughts.
It has little to do with levels of affection,
after all, I've written whole poems
based on the patterns of his shirts
and I'm afraid that the way I miss him sometimes
must be tangible to every stranger that I pass
on the street.

And I can't tell if all of these bold statements
are making me sick or jealous.
Who doesn't want to crawl into stars and be happy?
Sometimes I want to jump off buildings
because I can't fix anything, can't leave the country,
can't set anything on fire.
Nobody should have to be with a person like that.

Forty-two.

The only encouraging thing
your mother ever said to you was
You can run like a deer.
Since then,
you have not stopped running
like a deer.
You wanted light to come out
of your hands.

You say things like,
I should photograph more
of my life,
but never get around to doing it.
As far as regrets:
You will not see the leaves burst
from their branches
outside your bedroom windows.
At least once, in January,
you had fireworks.

And then the bathroom tile turns white.

You were eleven years old
when you saw your first body.
Your grandmother, who died in a cotton shirt
the colour of the sky.

You peel oranges to leave the scent
on your fingers.

Time zones introduce themselves again.
Digging into your gut
and then removing something important,
something without a name.
You forgot that they could do this.
You forgot that you could sense
the space between bodies.

Forty-one.

You disappoint him. He says
this isn't true but you know him now.
You finally sleep well next to his shape
and he often wanders into your day
and night dreams. He isn't demanding
and you are always sorry.
Sorry that you can barely read in front of him,
sing in front of him, play your guitar
as clearly as you do when you're alone.
In some ways, these are metaphors.
In some ways, these are not.
Maybe the perception is wrong.

You've been writing for a long time.
You break your lines better,
say things without saying them,
but it gets jumbled up
before it reaches the receiving point.
Sometimes in your head it gets so loud
that you have to turn off
all the lights. When his hand
slides across your stomach, when he kisses
your forehead, or touches you in public.
Never when it's lips on your neck
or fingers lingering on the inside
of your thigh. That is different.
Something more animal.

--

A weekend away is not enough.
You call your life "mediocre" and state
that you are "wasting approximately fifty percent,"
although the actual number would probably be quite higher
if calculated correctly.

Make a list of cities again.
Pittsburgh
Portland
Providence
Philadelphia
Boston.
Add Seattle and New York for the unrealistic hell
of it. Keep a suitcase packed
under your bed at all times.
Don't own any pets, keep any men
or buy any expensive furniture,
for these things are hard to leave behind.

--

You used to write about more interesting things.
Mostly larger messes, ones that weren't
about you exactly, but someone
poured them over you anyway.
Headlights in trees, lakes without bottoms,
the body your mother found
in the backyard, and then
the one they never let you see.
These are better stories.
Less selfish, in a way.

Anyway, the point is, somewhere
along the way you stopped believing
that you deserved anything.
There is little left
to elaborate on.

Forty.

I.
It has been raining for two days
and I am not supposed to be here.
I turn off the telephone, forget
to come back. Count days, weeks --
I must not lash out.
Sometimes I wish I'd never left Pittsburgh.
Sometimes I wish that you didn't let me land
in your life.


II.
People keep asking me foolish questions. Remember when it was an accident? A verb that should be apologized for? I'm bad at things like sleeping, and remembering my age. But I know it was a Thursday, and I will always remember that it was a Thursday, after the Monday that I got scared and indignant, after 10pm, with a large gap between the sides of the room.


III.
The plans I made were very simple. In summer, I would grow herbs and flowers on the radiator. The kitchen would get white branches to hang curtains from, and Day of the Dead images would hang from the walls. Muertos. Estamos todos muertos. Then there would be picnics in the park and laughter spilling out of our open windows. Oh, how rare is it that the dream mirrors the day.

I am leaving soon.


IV.
You wake up with bruises on your legs
as if you were running someplace in the night.
You are always running someplace.
You think that he is beautiful
and you are sorry.
Sorry for being a monster,
sorry for not using better adjectives,
sorry for keeping so many disgusting secrets.
It isn't that the truth is dangerous,
but there's something about the weight of it
and how you've managed to mold your shoulders
to carry it correctly.


V.
The sunlight drapes itself over the table and you are trying to form a sentence, any sentence, as long as it comes out of your mouth and makes two-thirds to one-whole sense, you can prove that you are still a human being. Spill a glass of water. Smash your fist into a window. The mess you leave behind means that this was home once.