after Lisel Mueller
Your hand is soap in mine, but I know
that when we take those steps onwards,
when we push
through those memento doors, locket-
locked, we will surge, upwards, nerves
cascading down our backs as we trek
into the inevitable. At the altar,
we are birds, flying beneath
rice geysers and rose-garden hopes. More than
leaky faucets, we trickle, carving canyons, grand
over years; your daisy chain
mingles with mine, and we run as I drop
my guard, toss my garter
far behind. I watch myself change
within you, learning new laugh lines,
because there is sunset on your lips,
spinning into stellar night and back
into astral morning.
Note: This is a (somewhat extreme) revision of “Imaginary Weddings.”
Two hours of conciousness may not sound like much, but when you went to bed at midnight and woke up at 4:30 in an anxious fever, it certainly feels like a lot.
Everything feels bad. I don’t know. The way feelings bad starts for me is right along my scalp–the sensation of greasy hair, even though my hair is never greasy–and then trickles down my spine the way melting strawberry ice cream trickles down your knuckles in the summer, you know, uncomfortable and sticky, removable only by warm water and soap and patience, and never right there are then, and maybe never at all, it often seems. I’ve been listening to Mary Lambert for maybe an hour (God bless this woman’s wonderful soul) and thinking about the good things that are coming in the distant future (even though they’re not guaranteed or even particularly well thought-out) but so far I’ve not found a cure. Maybe I’ll have to wash it out. Maybe I can’t.
It’s in my shoulders now. Oh, well. Nothing a little screaming can’t help, and I’m sure the neighbors won’t mind.
Either way, I hope you’re all feeling better than I am. I’ll leave you with some Mary because I love you and she’s great.
Ciao for now,