awkward jaws, awkward motions. missing people
in the dark. giant ants, your regular russian red army. they
scuttled up my body and dragged a thick river of honey
down my throat. in my sleep a separate universe spins out of
my eyes. in my sleep you wrote letters to my
address, slow and sweet. little elves sewed my dream-dresses,
my thin black lace gown flying and dancing while tiny
hands fixed seams, folded cloth, took measuring tape to my
waist and cried. for the disappearance of sunlight hair.
for the dying child in the dark. wake up, before
they stick needles into your skin and push plastic tubes filled
with god-knows-what into your nose. you have
to choose, i’ve said before.

but this time it isn’t a matter of the heart.
its life or darkness. last december we looked out the window and we saw
the moon eaten alive by winter. bit by bit, chewed down to the last slice
the last crescent. then the sun being swallowed whole. my stomach,
a reflection of what’s outside. trying to collect these feelings; missing.
as an emotion that means intense desire, and not a loss.
but they slip through my fingers and spills onto the waxed floor.
gone, i can’t keep track of yesterday or last week or the fifteen years
of waiting. and missing. sudden blood trickling down my thighs.
his face being faxed over to europe. (the phone rings. a passive voice,
waiting. europe? when? for good? bite back your tongue and
hang up, before exclamation marks and questions betray your
calm) quick fix, pre-emptive measures,
capsules shaken into open palm. your life is a lie i want to believe.

in the end we are only left
with one-word answers: yes, maybe. enough. please. desperate.
waitnowhereareyougoingpleasedon’tleaveme. if i don’t see the woods
then foxes do not exist. a bird dying two oceans away is already dead
to me. you, with your house and your wife and your three children,
the quiet wedding in hawaii where i wanted to —-
the long elegant french windows you promised ———-
your small garden and side swing and
a red mailbox and a dalmatian and
bookshelves filled with my favourite books
garden parties so fabulous they were featured in vogue living,
i know this because one day she invited me over for tea
and i came, clutching the thin strand of the hope that you
might be around. because we both know that fifteen years is
too long. too long. if you’re not here by three fifteen i’ll leave.
balancing pristine teacups filled with expensive tealeaves and
boiled evian water (who does that anyway. uses bottled water to make
tea.) and “just one cube of sugar please
we sat and she talked happily about married life
while i pleaded with the godfathers of time for the clock to turn to
three. fucking. fifteen.

in the end:
you, me.
we opt for blank features, filtered words,
and this sick muted acceptance.