My name is Adam, son of Adam,
son of Adam, son of… you get the idea—and this whole litany
is just to soothe some pesky qualms of questionable origin.
Wouldn’t it be easier to simply mention Eve?
After all, he was nothing but an accidental sperm donor.
If it were up to him, they would still be stuck
in that sterile confinement.
I woke up at five in the morning. It’s way too early,
but I can’t get back to sleep—it’s so goddamn bright.
Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough, or I should buy
thicker curtains. But isn’t it ironic how simple it sounds
when I preach something like this to my kids? I guess
that’s how he would have felt if it weren’t for the bottle.
I wonder what their excuse is going to be.
Is wrestling a paper in a desperate pursuit of words enough
to prove one has a chance to transcend an inanimate object?
After all, if there is nothing morbid about the first breath,
why would it be about the last one? We all know substitutes
are endless.
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.
