I don’t remember who I wanted to be. I remember who I was,
day after day, waiting for something comforting, like the thought
that if I change the way I write, I will change the way I live,
or maybe the other way around, even though I knew it wouldn’t last
—it never does. By no means did I expect solace to be so cheap
yet unrequitable, like concessions made before turning off
the bedside lamp.
If I moved to Paterson, would I meet Laura
of my own, and if so, what are the chances
that after the summer she wouldn’t turn out
to be Monika? I guess this is a futile question,
as not only am I not going anywhere near there,
but I actually hardly ever leave the house.
Perhaps it’s not strange to be careful around fire
after burning your hands, but when does caution
turn into cowardice?
If what they say—that nothing is free—is true,
then I have already paid for the antediluvian spelling
that knocked the tome to the floor with the sound
of raindrops on the tree leaves befriending my window.
The plan was to read it aloud, but you’re still afraid
to get on the bus and come here all by yourself,
without an arm to cling to. Perhaps I expected too much.
But I’ll be ready when you are. For now, you could leave
your room, maybe even go to the bus stop, and check
the timetable for Thanatos’ twin.
The day I died would be the first day of my life.
After all, a man’s life never truly begins
until he reaches the climax of his story,
or so the scriptures say.
I guess mine begins with a smell, and believe me,
enuresis is no laughing matter, at least not when you are twelve
and have to survive three weeks at a scout camp
while your first crush lives in the next tent.
If memory serves, it was also around that time
that I started taking liberties with certain parts
of my body. But it doesn’t really matter,
because one day you will bury this skeleton
of feeble memories with me.
The day I died would be the first day of my life
as you know it.
One day I was alone, then you came,
and I was alone again.
I guess I wasn’t that good at inventing dreams,
and my hands tend to get sweaty.
When you were still here, I couldn’t decide
whether I was young or old. Now that you are gone,
I shower only so often; I open a book
but don’t always read it—sometimes I just enjoy
the texture of the paper; and I save my voice,
or perhaps I’m simply too embarrassed to talk
to myself. But at least I can finally laugh
about my age dilemma.
I never expected to stand in front of the window,
hands in the pockets of my cardigan,
muttering some fancy acronym for pain
in a specific part of my body,
and that getting older would be so mundane.
Yet, I have to survive this unseasonably cold June
and myself.
I met you by chance in the shopping aisle—my old crush,
like the ghost of Christmas past, only prettier, and it’s June.
I know we never went beyond being colleagues,
apart from the occasional coquetry in the cafeteria,
but now that I saw you again, with your kid and a warm smile
on your face with features sharpened by life,
my heart skipped a beat once again.
If only I could recall
your name.
Does six miles on a bike count as a passing grade
in the arithmetic of cookies and pebbles,
or is it just plain old me trying to pretend
that it doesn’t matter how much my body can take,
as long as your smile covers the fundamentals
of cruelty—thanks to Niépce and the Lumière brothers
keeping alive the taste of cheap tinned peaches
served on peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast
with a cup of rooibos tea, already cold
and somewhat salty?
I always liked watching you undress,
but we never talked, and you would often laugh
at my sudden lack of confidence every time our eyes met.
Perhaps that was the problem, and now that all that’s left
easily fits under the crumpled sheet, it’s too late
to repeat the absent words, at least until I relearn the language
of picnics and mint chocolate—a rather meagre price
for indulgence.
When I was young, I wanted to be bold again and again
and write a verse, or better yet, a song.
When I was young, I wanted to hear your giggle
as we switched the dust jackets of Walt Whitman’s books
to pass them off as Jackie Collins’.
When I was young, I wanted to name all the constellations
that illuminate your face so that no one ever again would dare to say
they’re just freckles.
When I was young, I wanted to build a house out of the finger strokes
on the keys of your piano and my typewriter, so we could furnish it
with the gentle brushes of fingertips over lips.
When I was young, I wanted to believe we would never end up
among the Kramers, Hillards, and the like.
hidden pilcrow 