Just a heads up that for my most faithfullest of long-time readers, you will most likely recognize some of the stories/lines from this poem from actual entries in OD during my time with J. One of my goals this year was to start writing more poetry…and I felt I still had things to say regarding that situation…so I re-worked some of the material into poem form.
FIVE POSTCARDS ABOUT A FORMER LOVER
our first date doesn’t go well
a kiss at the end seems unlikely
but as we’re standing by my car
you suddenly swoop in
and i bob like tippi hedren
dodging a bird
your lips on my chin
the first of many you will make with me
the first time we sleep together
i am a plastic glove
the sharp nailed fingers
of a bad memory
i push you off and lay curled up
fighting for air and crying
over the bad thing
someone else did to me.
the next morning,
you walk me out
& i rest my forehead
before driving away.
i assume this is it,
and am goosed with surprise,
when you contact me
later to tell me
a bat was inside your house
& refused to leave.
while reading your text,
my nose suddenly geysers out blood
and my hands are slick
in the mars-like red of it.
the bat, the nosebleed…
that don’t mean anything unless i want them to-
but some writer of fiction,
some angry god am i…
i buy you a copy of that sufjan cd
the one that spun endlessly in my car
for many months in that hard year,
the dust bowl year, where everything
felt like grit between my fingertips.
in my enthusiasm to share it with you,
i describe his voice as a gauze of cumulus,
the album as a seraphic constellation
of songs, tossed across a melancholic sky.
“what made you think i would like something
like that?” you ask, tossing it in your bag.
i don’t know how to answer.
a poor girl, i knew i couldn’t give you the world,
but i had thought
maybe the metaphorical heavens would do.
the big drunk spoon,
breath sour with wine,
passed out with me
pinned under his arm.
being this close to someone
makes me feel like a live grenade,
and i lie awake thinking
about how shrapnel and fireworks
really aren’t so different after all.
in the end, isn’t shrapnel
really just a firework
made out of pain,
a beautiful & terrible lightshow of agony,
within our foolhardy bodies?
you didn’t get what you wanted from me
couldn’t turn a whore into a madonna
after a year of fucking in hotel rooms-
that equation only goes the other way.
you tell me it was a waste of a year.
but, remember that drink we had at the bar?
it had gin infused with earl grey tea.
it was the best drink i have ever had in my life
and i did it sitting on the stool next to you, smiling like a fool.