Long ago the sun filled this old house with poetry
inspired by our laughter.
We stood right here
by the fireplace taking pictures
to wake memories and move our hearts
with reasons
to hold hands once again.

We are now alone inside these rooms
where our hearts
endure the stampede of dissolving laughter
and I find that I want the sun
to fill this old house again with poetry
that sails inside
all that we are.

Oh, if only sounds of laughter like magic
would fill our hearts with warmth
and we could be as trees
that feel the flowers around their roots
perhaps then,
we could leave these rooms.

Then we could remember the pictures
we took by the fireplace
like a brisk *****
to what is lost and forgotten
and wake memories
that once again
fill this old house
with poetry.

I wrote a poem you'll never see –
a masterpiece; it took me weeks.
I love you and I wanted you to know.
I achingly described your lips
with tender, breathless craftsmanship;
it was a soulful, sinful epic wracked with lust.
Poetry herself, intrigued,
shook her head in disbelief;
no mortal girl could ever love so much –
and so, enamored by my words,
she decided to ****** you first.
I'm sorry, lover, but she had to go.

and they'll be sun, and fresh pages, text spilling, twisted, frothing at(out of) the mouth, they will be ghosts, transparent, don't touch wet paint, fingernail ghosts. symbiotic isn't smooth, biological, organic twining of vines you could cut with a nail, picture frames of postcards of gilt china and five sixteenth caviar plates. rhythms follow their own pattern, a set onetwoirresponsiblenumber of a monday pattern, rash birds, ink birds beat in the thrumming warm alive of you. curled, embryonic coats in white and grey form three barriers in notes of bibliophilia. sleeping aniseed furls sails of pretty youth and immortality, secrets -hush!- in a tiny box of a hand, palm first and shining.

Don’t tell me you love me.
Such things make me the shake.
My mind quakes and rattles and rolls as it unknowingly cooks up a bitter plan to turn your love into hate.
To turn those bright blue swimming pools of yours into the lowered shades I know how to deal with.
I can’t handle sweet honey dripping lips and lies of forever that taste just as sweet.
I’m broken and I will break you too
It’s what I do. Cause it’s all I know how to do to deal with a man who doesn’t lie or cheat or check out those cheerleaders ***** as they pass us, drooling like hunger recognizing a steak and looking back at me and seeing last weeks meatloaf.
I’m not used to a man who doesn’t tell me to paint myself up or trim myself down or even one that isn't at least a little like that one who told me I was lucky he looked twice. And I was, at the time, lucky he saw me because at that time I wasn’t seen by anyone. A ghost, haunting the classrooms and and halls, a blooming wall flower, growing up and around her dark little corner, tendrils arching away from the light. He was god, a pitying punk rock priest that put down the word and walked bravely into the dark twisting gardens. A martyr who took one for the team and decided to look the other way when faced with this and this and these…you know, for my sake.
I admit it, I’m bruised, battered  and beaten by those before you and you can’t expect a fair trial. I’ll do whatever I can to make you see what all the others saw. I will frame you like the pretty portrait you are putting the smoking gun in your hand telling you it’s your fault I pulled the trigger.
I try to be better but everyone knows I’m the worst, all bar room winks and smiles to just to test your line and flirting with a fate of dying alone cause I don’t want you holding my hand in public.
I couldn’t begin to tell you those deep down cravings for love. Those fears and tears that spill when no one is looking because I barley trust them to my tribe let alone a boy I barely met praising me as his one and only. A boy who can barely crawl into fray of my past issues. pages of time magazine caught in the wind each ad dawning a razors edge. cutting and tearing and stripping off the skin of anyone stupid enough to smell the buds in the middle of a brawl.
I admit it, I’m a fighter. I’ve been taught by bad teachers who make me believe that the second you take the time to find out the real me you’ll be gone. A shadow at high noon come and gone too soon thanking the lord you didn’t get in too deep before pulling yourself out.
Try not to get it twisted, I don’t hate the me deep down there but I do think it’s too much of me to ask you to peek in and be ok with that girl that can’t help but hide. That girl that talks tough but is sometimes scared of the dark that goes on and on forever inside. I don’t think she will ever meet anyone with open arms cause it’s easier to walk alone then be left behind.
I wanna believe in love, before the time has tick tocked away, leaving me the ancient spinner spinning long silken yarns about loves long lost and trying teach the young girls not to waste the years by talking the talk but not walkin the walk. I want to love and laugh and make memories but I'm afraid of choosing an end all be all just because I'm prone to some lonely nights.
so slow down speedy,  and put the *** on simmer. cause if you mean what you say and say only what you mean we got all the time in the world before those four little letters need to be added to the pallet to paint our perfect picture. don't ask for those hidden parts too quick and don't try and be slick, don't give me a sleezy cheesy come on baby please and please me. give us the time to grow and sew all the seeds that need to root before I know if you're for real or just another joker after the loot.

i look into the mirror.
after a long night alone with
a cheap chardonnay,
my hands run through my hair,
they rub the tired worry from
my eyes.

we stand there for a moment.
sighing a quick prayer and
trying to steady that shaking hand.
we start to raise our heads when

she stares back
unimpressed.
she wonders what happened
blames the sickly color on the lights and
you can almost hear her voice.

"you can't run forever.
sooner or later you're
going to have to answer to
somebody."

you almost wince and try and explain
but she continues to whisper
and plant those bitter black seeds
that take root so easily.

she laughs in your face.
she hates you.
you hate her.

she throws a punch
hitting you square, she shatters.
glaring up at you
from every ******
shard and splinter.

i am twelve.
my mother has taken me aside
and told me how my father died.
in a time, way back when,
now tinted gold with good memories
and the dust of hard years after.
i was only two and the family
had been complete and happy
for years before...

she tells me of the accident.
and my young mind
can't help but picture
something theater quality.
twisted metal, explosions
flipping end over end
or maybe on fire.

my mother,
frigid with the weight
of what the world expected of her
gone cold after the years of
her own rough childhood,
assures me it was quick
and leaves me to my own imagination.

that night
i dreamt.

my mother and i walk through an empty shopping mall.
she is like the adults in my morning cartoons
nothing but legs and hands,
her upper body off screen
i am small
and afraid,
and clinging to one hand.

we stop in front of a store
the double doors slide open,
and my father steps out.
he tells me to come with him
and i try.

my mother's hand clamps down
holding me fast
i pull and tug
and cry
and scream
and beg.

my father shrugs
tells me it's ok and walks away
the doors sliding closed
gone forever.

i woke crying and alone
in my bed
my mother asleep in her room
my brother asleep in his.
shaking and confused
i lay back down,
wiping at the cold trails
of tears spilt,
and hated my mother
for the first time in my life.

i can't find a job.
so once a week
i'm on hands and knees
polishing the steps for
an old white couple that feel
they are doing
me a favor.

and
they are...
letting me in their home
to vacuum and polish
dust and fold
scrub and bleach
for the few ripped and creased
dollars they can spare.
the paper sits
held sweaty in one palm
till i find a reason worth letting one go.

they  mull around
sour faced and sighing
how there is a strange film
on the kitchen floor
that was never there before.
i take the hint and run
to re-mop.

i feel as sour as they look sometimes
but i know deep down that
the scrubbing and the polishing
the dusting and the vacuuming
is a god send.
without it....
well,
i don't even want to think
about what i would do
without it.

i had a dream last night where
the man who owns the house that i scrub
came up behind me and slit my throat
my sticky glopping blood
splashing on the floor and walls
that i just finished cleaning.
and my dying thought was
how badly it would stain.

Your movements
leave me fumbling
for words
Your hugs soothe
and make all seem right
in this world
Your strength
and masculinity
are the epitome of my dreams
Your rough caress
steals my breath
Your whispered suggestions
leave me stammering
My tongue knots itself
whenever you speak to me
Your very presence
awakens senses
I never knew I had
When you hold my hand
I am ridiculously nervous
And I try to wipe off my silly smile
The sparks we create when we just stare
could burn the world
And You grab a fistful of my hair
Pull me close
The slightest touch
leaves my soul pleading
wishing for more
Your lips on my cheek
shoot to my core
Your kiss down my throat
Your teeth
nipping my collarbone
has me sighing
and gasping for air
This lust is
Suffocating
This tension
Maddening
Slowly
You are breaking away
the barrier I've put up
All my control is falling apart

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame.

Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.

I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own -- but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it's late. And the truth is laborious.


Berkeley, 1980.


Trans. Robert Hass and Robert Pinsky