A group chant in the back room. Espresso
machines hiss
in the main. The chanters clap. I may
know the words but I drink
the standard drip black
up here with coffee
jerks. I was no mixologist. Sometimes
it still hurts to mingle.
Words read upside
down, written
at an angle, the floor vibrates
when people pass by. Sticks
for the wobbly
table—that one’s mine.
I will use
any excuse to be this
shaken without visible calamity.
She’s going to repeat
herself. Another third
rail near miss, search
for a boat to catch
before it goes
beneath that bridge. Guardian
angels smirk
behind glass block. A white
fire truck unhooked and parked
at the curb. Self-plagiarize
enough, and slate won’t hold
sleep walkers in
suspension
over the riverbed.
To know what will
requires more
encounters with trap doors
than she’s willing to risk—no
matter how many
times she gets that urge.
A different cast
of characters, the chain
of cause and effect drapes
across the same
forbidden entrance. She burns
through them too intensely
on an old diesel train
passing through towns
named after men
she knew for a night
or two on the way
to more. She never got off
the rails long enough
to recognize how she was using
up this allotment
just as she used up
all her drink tickets
half a lifetime
too soon. Now she never gets off
at all. Better to listen
to that rhythmic chug and roll
from inside this coach class car.
To be
farther along
this lilac scented lane
is better than further into
mirrors.
Rebellion in long black
boots and Paper Mate flare
ink. Are those hearts
on the cap clip—a branding
she wouldn’t trust? Never
bother with a steady pace. No grace
in her stride toward another
pair of male arms. It hurts her
more than they would imagine.
One person household, an apartment
number she recites
over the noise of a question
about a parking voucher
she’s entitled to. She’ll answer
the next one—tightlipped for now.
Speaking in captions, she drinks
nostalgia from a red rock
glass. It tastes almost
sour—sweet kicked in
the jaw with a steel
toed boot firmly encasing
the foot of a man
she used to know. In biblical stories,
the knowing
would be absolute. Once two
bodies collide and become
affixed—nothing
with two hands can pull
apart the memory of their imprints.
But outside official belief, she lays with grace
in a black striped shirt. Forgotten
or not, she won’t get
drunk from a cocktail tonight.
To cash in
a past, pick
a year—1992,
better yet 1991—
would be too easy.
I’m done being
easy. Narratives
wrap around words
compressed. A loose loop
of letters with clear beginning,
middle,
end would be a legible expose
yourself delivery
method. But
it’s what gets packed in
so tightly—one lover’s lip
smashed against another’s ear.
Turns out, boys tell secrets too.
What’s left of her
independence could be lost
on those leaves budding
too early
to be in tune. Survival
of the opportunistic—the fittest
in a fancy new suit. Who
would wear a dress,
a tie, to a basement
house party where the pipes
might be about to burst? This leather
jacket has no secrets to hide
yet. Will there be time? Tornadoes
can’t destroy the true wall
where faces and signatures
are faint but there, if
you study the brick
long enough and in the right light.
After all these years, all
you have said, you’re still
afraid
of him. He has only a few
words left. They won’t hurt. Rarely did.
It was the ones
he threw at those around you.
To be so privileged
can be a burden. In his weakened
state, new hip just beginning to settle
into the mechanism that is
what’s left
of his life, why
this fear? Yes,
you’re losing him
the way we all lose
one another. There are no guarantees,
no ultimate reprieves. This is a slow burn
singe around your original
edges. No way comes without terror.
Whose? Yours? His?
All of those others?
With the spoken
language disintegrated,
what’s left is this raw
love. You must look it
in the eye. Don’t turn
your head off his
steady gaze. Remember,
who he is.
