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pretty poem
i really do like those jeans on you. i like your half smile your nervous hands the way you gesture when we’re sitting at our kitchen table talking and the world is just too much. i like that you always consider what i might need for my lunch, the way you put up with my constant revelations and my best ideas. i like that you only wear black t shirts, that’s all that’s in your drawers. i like your jokes and your catch phrases. everyone thinks you’re mean but you’re actually just shy. your music is terrible. cher and rod stewart and iron and wine, i have to leave the kitchen. i like that you know what you’re doing, that you bend pipe and twist wires. i like that you spark something. the heart tattoo with my name across it makes me smile. i love holding your hand walking to the store in the deepening after dinner dark as the streetlights come on one by one, and the way i can lean into you away from the wind and the chill.
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how are you?
last night i stood in the parking lot for a few minutes, just drinking the deepening sky before the meeting. when someone asks how i am i throw out busy stressed working a lot had a good trip the kids or the project or something reasonable. i don’t ever say i’m heartbroken. that’s how i am. today that memory flash and the tents by the tracks and a very kind man facing deportation and a woman not saying he put hands on me and excuses for the detonation of an entire people and that was by dinner time. i could write this list into next year and not even begin. good morning. your heart is broken, even if you don’t feel it yet. please don’t ask how i am unless you want sky shards and a story that will make you throw up on your boots. it’s time for work so i’m putting this away. how are the stars cutting through your windpipe and what was it you almost said instead of i’m fine? |
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February 2019
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