I breathed when your father breathed.
That’s how I learned to inhale long and deep
and exhale quick.
On a bed for forty years, one small bed, we one.
I could have chosen (Could I not?) to follow another man
Or lived like a fairy, sans
But, God, it surely felt good to make him mine.
Not in a quest to find love. No, no-
As it happens in dark halls, pages, in glitter rains-
I, with him; freed and tussled in a crammy bed,
Shredded each other for pleasure and pain.
I will walk out and
go with love.
Don’t tell me how good that would be,
the consequences dire.
Or, how good should I be, without it, free.
I won’t listen, no, no.
I will stand up, hold her hand, forsake you for good.
I will walk out and go-
go with love.
No preacher has told me so.
No rocker has swayed me (my heart) with sad crooning at those oblong nights.
But this, this feeling that gnaws a pit (in me)
that I am nothing-
nothing without her.
Before I forsake this feeling, I’ll forsake you, naive.
Before you say a word (and wield a weary smile),
I will walk out of this place.
And go with my love.
Time passes by
There is no clock
But of her cotton rustling
I am a rusty tap
Leaking shallow dripping words
May this poodle
Fill up her silence
An appetite is a costly thing.
For life? Oh, it’s more.
It’s easy to find why tragedy wears such a
commonplace bearing, and hope?
Who knows what it wore.
But, I have lost all my appetite
And hope? I saw her eons ago.
In a time when she was coarsely drawn up and-
Tottering; though her face still glowed.
An old Adam’s apple glistened on my father-
My old father- on my father’s old throat.
After a shave, after a save; after he came back from the hospital, after all concerned had lost all their hope
and then, regained.
My Adam’s apple glistens too in the morning light
(like father, like his son?)
After I shit, bath, brush, floss and shave.
To pull a long day and a quieter one too as one pull the wools over one’s eyes
and get drowned in the matinee’s terrific irony-
Why, that is my usual business.
I wonder what I will regain.
His mullishness, perhaps?
Before the end of the time and before the end of
my elongated days.
While reading a biography- a new book- life of Michelangelo or Kemal Pasha; invariably I will ask on some grand pages, “Did he know?”
“Did he know what?”
“Did he know how would it end, how would he himself die?”
“No one could possibly know that. Don’t be silly!” I will chide myself.
But as soon as the conversation is over- me naive being silenced by me reasonable- there will be a self-assurance of a fortune teller and an anxiety of a disciple, in me, while looking at the prospect of a great man.