If only I could believe in a sentence that begins with ‘I’ and ‘myself,’
one that soothes the gripping drama of coffee beans in a howling grinder,
one that covers the silence with ‘One too many mornings’ on the turntable,
one that sums up a man’s life without conveying persuasive language,
one that perhaps this once I myself would dare to resist falling for,
except the forbidden never asks for forgiveness, and that’s the sentence.
Love is not a word—it’s an acronym,
but you will never learn what it stands for
until one day a man in a horsehair wig asks you
for its cash equivalent transfer value, or CETV,
and a few other lovely abbreviations.
Tinker Bell tried to convince Peter that there was more to life
than peeking at public displays of affection, the disappointed
voice on an answering machine, or moments of happiness
scheduled for every other Sunday by court order.
She couldn’t stand the sight of him lying under the plastic fir,
whistling carols—for heaven’s sake, it’s June!—and wailing
that he could no longer remember a time when he was fearless.
Who said that one could only forget things that one once had?
Tinker Bell tried to be patient with him—even admitting that
they needed each other—but in the end, it proved too exhausting.
But before she left, she marked on his calendar the end
of mourning—one more arbitrary deadline he would never meet.
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?
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 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.
Who is to judge if I’m wasting my life?
As far as nature is concerned,
I have already fulfilled my sole purpose
by passing on my genes.
Now all that’s left is to sustain my body
to the very end, whenever that may be.
All the rest is fodder that I convinced myself
I needed to stay determined to breathe:
buy a book, read a book, go to the beach,
tell someone you wish you loved them
no more.
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