They call it the morning glory, but what’s glorious about it?
If anything, it’s just an inconvenience, like phantom pain
after you left. I guess, as with everything in life, that too
will go away with time, and, whilst drear, it might even feel
cathartic to finally find something beyond this dangling
personal pronoun of mine.
I live a simple life. If I’m hungry, I eat; if I smell, I take a shower.
I sleep for six hours and work for seven and a half, plus an hour for lunch.
Once a week, I masturbate or write a poem, and I still can’t believe I lost
my better half to the bus driver—unless it was a blessing, then I’m the winner,
or perhaps we both are. Maybe that’s why I can still look forward to losing
a game of chess to my little niece.
Sometimes I wonder. If it had been a little less improvised,
with a slightly more suitable soundtrack, would it have gone better?
Our last day, I mean, or maybe the first—I’m not so sure anymore.
I guess it all came down to the fact that, somewhere between
a jar of grated horseradish and a jar of honey, we forgot
that turning on the turntable makes absolutely no sense
if we never place a record on the platter.
Waking up to Tom Traubert’s Blues
was never meant to be anything more
than a provisional unction
plastered over my troubled little I,
but with each hoarse waltz with Matilda,
my fingers became addicted
to the gentle brushing of the piano keys.
When I played it for you that morning,
you compared it to a glass of Chardonnay;
for me, it has always been more
like the rich savour of sun-dried tomatoes
bathed in sunflower oil,
but when you laughed in amusement at this,
the turntable stopped mid-word,
or perhaps it was us no longer present,
already honing the past.
Once you span a lifetime of pity
with a pile of cardboard,
all that is left is one last goodbye,
despite knowing it’s just an empty gesture.
For a while, you try to keep up appearances,
but eventually you have to face the fact
that your dignified strategic retreat has fallen
on your tail between your legs.
I’m the future stranger you used to love
(remember the declaration? I do).
I’d like to say it’s liberating,
but I still struggle with the time
between closing and opening the curtains.
For a while, I thought I should see
if I was still capable of being surprised,
but now that I’m older, I’m not sure
if I even have the guts to find someone
(it sounds so simple in blue ink on papier vélin)
and forget about you.
Burying a dead bird, we listened to Gil Shaham’s violin in L’inverno.
Then I kissed your ink-stained hands as if nothing had happened,
and we embraced the routine: uneventful nights, quiet mornings,
and tedious climbing up whatever followed, day after day,
with the help of white lies and unsolicited acts of kindness.
Is it possible to die when life is an obligation and love is a calamity?
Can I at least change my mind on the little things once I tell you a story
about my day—an ordinary day, one of those where it’s possible to pass by unnoticed
like an idea of happiness, when it’s easy to regret since life is selfish
and a hug requires a script?
In a way, the word morbid sounds like a promise
that, with some strong language, the light could manage to get through
the shrouds that cover windows, and you no longer have to choose
between Latin and Greek profanities, knowing that survival is nothing
but performance.
It is not about breakfast—or any other meal for that matter—eaten in solitude.
It’s not even about the freezing-cold bed you have to jump into after taking a hot shower.
The problem is in all those little glimpses of unexpected brightness you have no one to share with,
like when you exchange a curious glance with a mellow fox during an evening walk,
or when you make flatbread that smells of exotic spaces you recall your granny used to use,
or when you manage to sneak an ancient Greek profanity into an innocent-looking poem.
Weeping after all this without a hand with a handkerchief—that’s loneliness.
Passing couples in love on the street, I get jealous, but I also feel sorry for them.
They do not know yet that what they feel is just chemically induced infatuation,
not much different from inebriation, which distorts their perception of each other.
They are not aware that under the surface lurk reefs on which this brief illusion
will crash eventually, and the only thing that can save their skin is not a signature
on the marriage certificate but a well-prepared prenup.
hidden pilcrow 