Feb 2010
Riesling and cat. This is Christmas for me. This wine used to tickle me, it is sour,
like the grapes were young, like I was young when I drank it and praised it. There are always tears around this hour. This time of evening is the time when enough of the day has passed without me doing anything to feel bad about it, and there is enough time left to be unsure. Will I be lonely again tonight? Will I spin in the kitchen, feet slipping on spices spilled (the remnants of some sort of communion)
will I outstretch my hands and let my knuckles crack against the sacred objects-a fridge, countertop, stove,
will I drink all the wine in the cupboard? To that I say yes -my mother would weep at the thought.
Mother, just so you know, I always drink the wine in the cupboard if it is there. But not in a sad way, in the way that (simply put by a heart that I burn for): in a way that makes the gravel against my eyes easier to bare. It is not sad. I repeat. Do not cry mother.
Tonight I will sit in the spot hollowed out for my lonely body, a place con caved especially for my spine-rigid and warm with aching. I will allow the furred creatures to slither across my lap, curl around my neck like vibrating scarves. They have ladylike evil in their eyes, they extend fingers and pronounce their claws and let tongues creep between them and I do the same in my own human way. And without anyone watching we will be beautiful all by ourselves.
Will I write you a poem, one who has blackened before my eyes? Yes, and this is it.
Christmas for me, crackles with time retrieved and run over the reel again, it is stiff with wear and sweat and tears that squeeze from those traditional embraces, dried out, worn out like a dish rag, draped
over the faucet and forgotten.
When you finally come home, I want to pull on the shoes and slip the coat that has become like a second skin over my back and leave the door wide and gaping open like the mouth of an old man dreaming of new pleasure. I will run then.
And you will watch my small body retreat from this, light pillowing before me giving you the illusion that i have no dimension:only darkness within me you will see, from your place by the doorway.
like the grapes were young, like I was young when I drank it and praised it. There are always tears around this hour. This time of evening is the time when enough of the day has passed without me doing anything to feel bad about it, and there is enough time left to be unsure. Will I be lonely again tonight? Will I spin in the kitchen, feet slipping on spices spilled (the remnants of some sort of communion)
will I outstretch my hands and let my knuckles crack against the sacred objects-a fridge, countertop, stove,
will I drink all the wine in the cupboard? To that I say yes -my mother would weep at the thought.
Mother, just so you know, I always drink the wine in the cupboard if it is there. But not in a sad way, in the way that (simply put by a heart that I burn for): in a way that makes the gravel against my eyes easier to bare. It is not sad. I repeat. Do not cry mother.
Tonight I will sit in the spot hollowed out for my lonely body, a place con caved especially for my spine-rigid and warm with aching. I will allow the furred creatures to slither across my lap, curl around my neck like vibrating scarves. They have ladylike evil in their eyes, they extend fingers and pronounce their claws and let tongues creep between them and I do the same in my own human way. And without anyone watching we will be beautiful all by ourselves.
Will I write you a poem, one who has blackened before my eyes? Yes, and this is it.
Christmas for me, crackles with time retrieved and run over the reel again, it is stiff with wear and sweat and tears that squeeze from those traditional embraces, dried out, worn out like a dish rag, draped
over the faucet and forgotten.
When you finally come home, I want to pull on the shoes and slip the coat that has become like a second skin over my back and leave the door wide and gaping open like the mouth of an old man dreaming of new pleasure. I will run then.
And you will watch my small body retreat from this, light pillowing before me giving you the illusion that i have no dimension:only darkness within me you will see, from your place by the doorway.
