Springsteen

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The last time you touched me with love was a Saturday, we went to a concert at the Sinclair. The poorly lit concert hall was grimy and stank of beer and groups of bearded flannel wearing Bostonians were rocking out to Springsteen. You stood behind me and held me close; your arms tightly wound around me. I could feel your cheek pressed against mine. I kept rocking back on you and turning to see your face. You didn’t like people pushing and I wanted to make sure you weren’t getting upset. I was always worried about your mood; if you were happy, if you were sad.

I don’t remember if we made love that night. I wish I did.

 

Backwards (Warsan Shire)

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The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.
He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life;
that’s how we bring Dad back.
I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole.
We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear,
your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums.
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,
I can write the poem and make it disappear.
Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass,
Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,
maybe she keeps the baby.
Maybe we’re okay kid?
I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love,
you won’t be able to see beyond it.
You won’t be able to see beyond it,
I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love.
Maybe we’re okay kid,
maybe she keeps the baby.
Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,
Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass.
I can write the poem and make it disappear,
give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums
we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear.
I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole,
that’s how we bring Dad back.
He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life.
The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.
The Dove (Rafael Alberti)

The Dove (Rafael Alberti)

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La paloma (Spanish)

Se equivocó la paloma.

Se equivocaba.

 

Por ir al norte, fue al sur.

Creyó que el trigo era agua.

Se equivocaba.

 

Creyó que el mar era el cielo;

que la noche, la mañana.

Se equivocaba.

 

Que las estrellas, rocío;

que la calor; la nevada.

Se equivocaba.

 

Que tu falda era tu blusa;

que tu corazón, su casa.

Se equivocaba.

 

(Ella se durmió en la orilla.

Tú, en la cumbre de una rama.)

dove

The Dove (English)

The dove was wrong.

She was mistaken.

 

To travel north she flew south,

Believing the wheat was water.

She was mistaken.

 

Believing the sea was sky,

That the night was dawn.

She was mistaken.

 

That the stars were dew,

That the heat was snowfall.

She was mistaken.

 

Your skirt your blouse,

Your heart your home.

She was mistaken.

 

(She fell asleep on the shore,

You at the tip of a branch.)
Indianapolis

Indianapolis

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“Are you going to miss me?”
You asked cheerfully, packing for a business trip
to Cleveland or Indianapolis
or wherever one does audits on manufacturing plants
and eats steaks rare with A1 sauce and onion rings.

“Did I, when you left me before?”
Last July, in the early morning of a hot day
your side of the bed still warm from the dent
your head made on the pillow, your slippers still under the bed.
Only to call a week later,
to say you can’t do “this” anymore.
As if “this” was a Monopoly game we were playing or
Chutes and Ladders.
At least not now, but maybe later?

The tik tok of the clock each autumn day
At 4:30pm when the bus pulled up across the street
But you didn’t walk out, with your headphones in
And your sunglasses on, smelling of peppermints
To mask cigarettes or Macallan 12.

And the house was resoundingly empty
At least at night, when I sometimes saw the shadow of your back
The moonlight cascading in through the half curtained window
But it was only the blanket holding me.

Fear

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This one is by Raymond Carver, with my revisions.

Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.

Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of looking in the mirror and not recognizing myself.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.

Fear of my mother dying before I do.
Fear of me dying before my mother.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear tomorrow will start with an unhappy note.

Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of dreaming you are still here.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.

Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.

I've said that.
6 AM in the City that Never Sleeps

6 AM in the City that Never Sleeps

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It’s 6 am in Times Square. The city that never sleeps, lit up in early morning fog. The maintenance crew coming off their midnight shift, and the smell of eggs and toast for $3.75. The neon signs flash the promise of eternal youth; anything your plastic card can buy. A girl with a leather folder hails a yellow cab, she is here to make it in the corporate world, her make up slightly smudged from the night before, when the wine was flowing from Edward’s 35th. A cab pulls up, the lights on Broadway all turn green, doesn’t it feel good to be alive?

Motel Vacancy – Color TV

Motel Vacancy – Color TV

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Motel Vacancy lit up
Luxury pool, color tv, no smoking
One key or two? Just one

Under the sheets
“clean and fresh for every guest”
Muffled cries through the wall
A child, or is it a woman, quietly sobs

Somewhere, a football game is on
Shuffled chairs, people cheering,
empty beers, pizza cartons
Do Not Disturb

“Will I see you next week?”
“I don’t know,” he murmurs
“She and the kids come back from their trip”

Outside, the neon sign flickers
Mosquitos float in the pool,
“guests only” it says.