another night of youth
wasted.
on the walk from the bars we kicked rocks and whined aloud
at the fickleness of our latest crushes. stewing over the injustice of it all.
my porchlight was tucked into the alley you'd continue down;
we'd reach it in a few more dark jokes,
wave, smile,
shout good wishes to the sound of my turning key.
i don't know who said something first;
i don't know if we said anything at all.
only that suddenly there was the flavor of your grin
the rough of five o'clock shadow pushing three am.
it was all so luxuriously simple,
so naturally unfussy -
we'd loved others before
we'd love again but for now
we were sticking middle fingers up and tongues out to Big Lonely.
fingertips swirling conspiratorially across thighs,
lips playing house against collarbones;
the assuaging breaths between bouts
hanging from the corners of the room, our canopy of relief.
there was the smallest sense of wrong in how right we blended,
stunning how we dissolved one another into puddles then giggles -
a spice i relished as i fancied myself recklessly daring.
i wasn't of course.
falsely audacious about everything,
i bet safe; i bet you.
because in even the smallest of things, you treasure - that's what i'd love about you
for years to come
as we each went about our lives, the easiest semisecret i've ever kept
(it was too fun to watch our friends' jaws drop, who could resist)
all of it
faded
so far into the distance now
nothing but depth patinaed into dark joke filled reunions.
Tag: quote
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immersion.
-
a prayer.
magic, the way the backseat bench can never quite hear what the front cab is saying.
we were packed into the car like sardines
fivefriendssuitcasesbackpackspurses
snacks held out, passed around, remnants scattered between us.
but i heard you
even on the diagonal
my knees propped against the drivers seat back
chuckling softly “we’re really livin’ now, eh?”felt you say it, more like,
same as the hush that falls when all the windows are rolled down.
never came up with a new term for that, did we?
what a legacy
those Oldsmobile knobs
hitching, always in the same two places, against the strain of leather siding
as if they actually coiled glass onto itself.
magic,
if you let yourself believe.
“sure seems that way” i said, distracted,
imagining the windows rolling so far the car transformed into a topless Wrangler;
the wind whipped wash of calm,
the inextricable undercurrent of terror.
the sudden awareness of how fast you are moving,
of how little there is to protect you;
the hesitant trust placed in every passing stranger,
the blanket of zen, however meager, that no matter what so much is outside of your control.
“oh shit! got it back!”
the satellite gods had finally found us weaving between the mountains,
rained their manna, databytes, reassurance we’d survive.
curiosity my well documented master, i pulled myself up
wrapped my arms around the driver headrest.
together we watched the map reload on the center console,
some fortunetelling talisman with a modern mouthpiece,
“for-ty – min-utes – to – des-tin-a-tion”
“oh. we’re halfway there.”
i met your rueful smile with a nose scrunch, my lips sealed against the crook of my right arm, longing suddenly
acutely
for the uncertainty of the last half hour;
the disorientation of feeling lost in varying degrees
already logged nostalgically as some mad adventure.my chin rested atop my elbow now.
“yeah, forty more.
and even that’ll take some luck.”
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extroversion:
adj. affection for living in the tendrils of alternate lives; to have an active imagination
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electricity.
a heavy evening rain rose as a loaded fog,
cloaked us like a dimming theater light.
grateful for an excuse to hush under the guise of proper manners
we sat shoulder to shoulder, our eyes focused safely in the distance,
unsure exactly the show to follow but knowing with certainty
that it was starting.
just for the fun of it, i turned your smile over in my lap until it softened,
bated your breath,
sparked flint against the base of my own spine.
i fancied an impossibility
that this moment was inevitable, found myself shuffling through versions
of the vastly different people we could have arrived to it as.
after all,
what were we but shoe boxes full of trading cards shelved at our childhood homes,
each bearing our face with different uniforms, records?
what more had we done to reach right now but closed our eyes, stuck our hands in, and plucked one out?
i thought
how easy it is, to burn a box of cardstock.
the plastic coating would add an edge of stubbornness
clinging to its former form
before giving way
curling into a puff of black smoke.
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din.
if a forest of family trees fall
and we hear every single beat
is there such a thing as sound, after?
is there deep sleep,
good judgement,
wise investment?
is there trustworthiness,
reliability?
is anything seeworthy any longer?is there music?
singing?
or only the roar of an Amazon slashed-and-burned,
of ancient Redwoods a hundred meters high,
toppled,
roots splayed to the Heavens –
all the Wonder in this Natural World
scorched,
rotting,
silent.
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revive The Bride.
(i)
even as a murderess she held a certain nobility -
never brought a gun to a swordfight,
never shied from loudly announcing herself
a knock
a streak of yellow
never accepted she shouldn't be bestowed something priceless.
and so i believe there is a Beatrix Kiddo
whose killer maternal instinct could reconcile the fact
that everyone is someone's child.
but that nature requires a nurture
where there are no triggers pulled tense against their springs at a church service,
no old men curling baby hairs behind ears as
some unbreakable vow
some staked claim
no learning lovers can destroy one another with the press of a few fingertips.
there will still be unresolved injustices - it is the world, after all.
but if Beatrix Kiddo is to be more merciful
so too must her circumstances.
(ii)
even under softer stimuli,
when she's activated?
i still imagine the room fades on the periphery.
she strides into some third-world streetside dive, whipcracks echoing off her heels,
nears the throat of the lead she's chasing and draws her Hattori Hanzo -
a finely tuned, custom-crafted, Japanese steel
pen.
her adapted method of exposing what she knows to be the truth
slicing fearlessly through the silence
direct eye contact
directer questions
digging up all they've buried
pressing the barrel so hard the ink bleeds onto the next sheet.
the result - a venomous, front-page skewering;
she's found a way of dismantling someone with her fingertips in this timeline too.
Beatrix Kiddo reformed
will not roar or rampage her way to revenge,
no.
she will be precise,
she'll exact it.
musée 