Monday, May 18, 2015

Magic Hat: You are here and so am I


You are here and so am I

I could spin this off
as if I didn’t 
care for you,
or that you bent to me as easily
as damp linen on a line.
It turns out,
the heart is a tart
you only eat the crust of.
You spilt soul; a
whole entity of gimmick
and shadow;
so cumbrous a shell,
so solemn—

so/so.

Clinging in the
bowels of hands
that hold water
like prayer
or sand
or—
gripping onto the respective specimen—
the action of clasp 
and release, repetitively—
dangling
above something carnivorous enough to eat
an entire mountain of you
the entire mountain of you.

(Before you leave):

You will not miss walking tiptoe—carefully
down a long hallway of hardwood floors, sticky with old dog urine.
Or playing Russian roulette with a  bathroom
that may or may not
have toilet paper
or soap.
You will not miss the smell in his room
—incense and litter box—
or the lack of internet access,
or the looseness of his eyes
along with the ingenuine, loving things he would say
after too much drinking.

No.

You will miss the clumped springs in his couch bed digging into you;
it’s tiny, metal knuckles
crumpling under the stained plastic cover
and the too-small-for-a-queen-size fitted sheet.
You will miss how he created comfort
by offering his shoulder to make the rough sea of mattress,
calm.
You will miss the weight of his arm on your hips
while he dreamt;
the patience in his kisses,
and
the carefulness of his love-making
when he knew you had to leave.

(When you are alone):

Allow yourself
to stroke the strife of this
estrangement;
the Bach
and the Mahler
and the Queen 
resounding in the background
of your pain.
Lie still 
as the sad and the slow 
of your limbs 
surrender peacefully over the mattress,
limp—onto a floor
like vines in the winter,
or veins
on a crown,
swollen and tired
of its job.

Rest.
You spilt soul.

(Wisdom):

Mother once told you
that cows,
cows have milk, 
and men,
men will drink all of it 
to the point where
she, the cow,
loses the will to make more.
The cow becomes an old maid.
The men,
they move on,
drinking their fill,
leaving behind a spoiled
light—the carcass of a heart—
the memory of someone
who briefly showed them that 
home was somewhere between
split apart thighs
in a sparsely furnished 
brownstone in Bedstuy.

—Bex

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