Write a poem, John said. Make it a poem for someone, John said. Why are you writing seven of them? John will say.

E—

 

I

I took you home and opened you like a book,

Let the newness of you flood my senses

Before I became absorbed by the

Fragile covers splayed out on either

Side of your fragile spine. Holding your

Delicate pages in my hands and fingering them

Idly as the words spilt from my mouth and

Overflowed onto the delicate silk of your sheets.  

II

I wrap each

Little word you

Say in ribbons

And bows,

And press it,

Like flowers,

Between pages

Of a book.

III

Was it T.S Eliot

Or E.E. Cummings

That you loved?

I forget. I only

Started reading them

In a desperate

Attempt to cling

To whatever remained

Of you and I. Some

Digitally preserved

photographs and

letters, Naked Lunch,

and “this is the wonder

that's keeping the stars

apart” scrawled at the top

of barely legible note

Sent from your dorm room

in Alfred, New York.

IV

I was with you when

they dug up Neruda’s body.

And it seemed so perfectly fitting

on the day of his resurrection

that he and we should be

so similar, preserved but

still weathered. After all, nothing

stops the passing time forever.

Not clay or formaldehyde,

Not love poems, 20 or more,

Not the memory of you

springing from the night sea.

Not light, smoke, or still ponds.

Not the spring, not the cherry trees.

V

Here comes the darkest summer.

Don’t be a fool, Ned, this

is much worse than winter.

Winter was us, food, drink,

endless love on the bear skin.

Sure it was dark, but we could handle it.

Now what are we supposed to do?

Light up the dead seaside towns with our smiles?

It’s after 5pm, everything is closed,

we best go home, or back to our hotels,

No one’s having any fun in this place,

not even the birds. They’re too used

to gourmet bread, they won’t even

eat this processed shit any more.

VI

You left,

into the elevator

and out the door.

I haven’t trusted

machines since.

Where did you need

to get to so fast?

And why were they

so complicit in it?

Probably to New Hampshire,

where all things that

need to get lost go,

to sleep in stables

next to Willa Cather

or eat braised lamb

off his fat nose.

VII

I thought about

turning the car

and heading

north towards

New Hampshire,

just to make

sure that it was

still there. As if the

whole state

would rise up and

walk out of

existence when

we did.

I’d do anything

to get the rose

colored glare

out of my eyes.