I tried to draw a cloud.
I really did. with trembling hands that black pen found my wrist
but they were always too squiggly
or too big or small
never just right, the way they must be for you.
I always thought that clouds were a thing of happiness
of joy, and birthday parties and wishes
but
not for you
all the clouds brought was a sick sort of happiness
the kind of happiness that you have when you get a
"i'm sorry" card about the loss of your grandmother
they only brought that idea that they were there becuase
you weren't going to be there, so painfully soon
so I tried with tears, and screams and sobs
to draw a perfect cloud
with a perfect color on the perfect day
it was always wrong though
my hand didn't like the way that you were leaving us
leaving us on a cloudy day for somewhere else
somewhere else from that place we met
where happiness was
darkness was there too, but I hope you always remember the
happiness, wherever you are now
and I hope you know that we miss you
even though I'm not able to take a pen to my skin
and etch your final wish, a cloud,
I still think about it
about how the clouds stole you away from us like a blade tears my jean pocket
but were are you now
they say that you left us
before august 31st, the day you told us
oh how I wish that august 31st was just a madeup day
a day that never showed up on the calendar, because it was
all a lie
perhaps on august 31st
there will be clouds again
clouds drawn on eager hands with eager tears
that still flow after you've gone and
only the clouds remain in your place,
reminding us, that you were here, we didn't make it up
it wasn't a dream.
how do you draw clouds for someone you never really knew anyway?
how do you show that you care when you do
but you don't know it
how painfully it is to draw a cloud on your arm
for someone who will never see it
perhaps you'll see clouds there though?
maybe you'll see the way that my clouds never turned out right
how they twisted and turned and broke into little pieces
how they were too big and too small
how they held too many sobs to even look like real clouds
how the clouds themselves were pain;
which of course, was the problem with your clouds

Disco burnout,
fever rampant erosion

Empty glances,
mirrored hollow drums

Bleeding, starving,
passive alertness

Madeup, putdown
—treadmill run

(Woodlands Hotel: Wilkes Barre- January, 1980)