Nov 21, 2012

Open Mic



On Being Billy Collins’ Hypothetical Post(wo)man

First, I would probably rub my eyes with my fists
to ensure my contacts had not fuzzed
and blurred the name wrong.
Then, I would slip the envelopes addressed with his name
into a quilted paisley patterned mailbag
and set off into the Bronx
to hunt addresses on skinny streets
saddled by houses that rise steep
and narrow into the sky.

As I walk, conversations would play
in my head, first a whisper, chit chat—
maybe slip a book in with the envelope in hopes of a signature—
and then, as daydreamed conversations often do,
it shifts to me standing on a podium
after him, reading my words
in the bored, buzzed drawl he taught me,
my books companioned with his on the innocuous table
somewhere in the back of the room.

I won’t remind him of the time when I, seventeen,
handed him a copy of his book,
giggling when he asked my name,
blushing when he asked me to repeat it,
my laughs high and clear notes
richocheting off the walls of the City library auditorium.
Kitti, I said,
Kitti, like a cat, but with an I.
My friend’s laughs
rolled around the room like spilled pearls.
Someone meowed, and we collapsed
into the bundles of our coats,
clutched each others arms, our breath tight,
our faces red from mirth—me, embarrassment.

He looked tired, the lines of his forehead creased
like rumpled linen. Black sharpie bled
into the table of contents as he signed my name, then his,
and slid it back across the table.
I gazed at him, feeling I should recite
some grandiose monologue
about how he taught me
to drop mice into poems
and watch them scrabble the walls for an exit,
how I inexplicably link Emily Dickinson
and Victoria’s Secret models together now,
how lanyards equals boondoggle in Utah,
and I can do the square and the circle,
but instead I said
Thanks.

Just thanks. He gave me a way
out of the stuffy, boxed poetry
of my peers, and I gave him
giggling-teen-girl induced headaches
and occasional shout-outs in poetry classes.

I don’t think that makes us even.

If I found his hypothetical address and knocked upon
his hypothetical door, I would hand him
his letters, I think, tip my hat at his balding, thick knit
sweater clad self, and slip back to the sidewalk.
Maybe someday, after he’s learned my name—
the real one—I’ll pull
the mouse out of my poems,
present it to him
like a medal, and say
something a little more profound
than thanks.


Somebody I Used to Know
9.1.11

Let’s go to the lake,
he says, and pulls a dress from my closet:
the black one, knee length, with oversized roses in purplepinks
and yellows and oranges. I inch it over my hips,
wincing as the fabric pulls against girth,
and ask him to zip it. His hands are strong
and soft against my skin
as he pulls the zipper up tight,
and I imagine he is stitching my veins
so blood doesn’t pour onto the moth eaten carpet.
I am stitched together and he is whole and lovely
and taking me on a drive to our favorite canyon lake
before it is eaten by snow.

When he kneels I don’t expect it.
I am pulling ahead of him to meadows
with swaying grass and wildflowers
that dot pinpricks of color in the green.
I want to run around the lake,
sit at the sunken bench on the pier
extending into the shallows,
watch the sky turn citrus shades
as the sun sets behind us,
but he touches my hand with his, stops me
from joining the meadow, and he
has a question for me

and the ring is white gold filigree and heart inlays
framed by a delicate blue box.
I forget about the bench
and rays piercing the still water of the lake
and just say yes.

People across the boardwalk are cheering:
ladies with ill fitting capri pants
and clunky shoes,
balding, bearded men holding bulky cameras, clicking
the shutters, happy to have stumbled
upon the moment when we decide to take a leap
into the dark together, fingers entwined like wire.

Let’s walk around the lake, he says, 
and then we’ll go dance to celebrate.
So we walk, past the meadows and the sunken bench,
past the wet and muddy rushes where ducks play hide and seek,
past the signs warning what to do
in the event of an angry moose.
We stroll along a meadow boardwalk in fancy clothes
and talk about our future,
surrounded by pines and slopes
topped with gray, never-melting snow.

As the water begins to stain orange and pink and blinding
yellow, we drive back to the city,
the ring glinting prisms
off the sunken sunlight
and my heart pumping like a fist
against my chest. I am nervous
to tell my parents and nervous about life together,
but we are holding hands
as we carve our way down the mountain.
We are holding hands
and we will hold hands forever.


Three Twenty Eight Twenty Twelve 
8:26 PM
Dear,
I thought about what you said last night
and I agree:
You deserve to be married
to someone 
who wants to be married.

That isn't me.



Aftermath
8:27 PM
Sweet chai frothed
from the top of the cup as I leaped
from the rickety, torn cushion barstool
and fled the jungle painted premises.

It dribbled down my hand,
hot, sliming my keys and dripping
onto the sticky wood slats of the outside porch.
I didn’t feel the heat. I didn’t feel anything
until I slammed my car door shut and screamed
to the ink black interior. I screamed
until I lost breath.

Then I called. Twenty-five
times I called, tracks stamped
on my cheeks, huffing and sobbing.
Twenty-five times
I heard your voice, the jingle
of your syllables announcing
your absence, and twenty-five
times I begged you to stay,
asked you why
you had to do it this way.

Sixty-three months since we locked eyes
and you asked how you knew me. Seven weeks
until aisles and vows and a three tiered cake with frosting
shaped to look like hydrangeas. Twenty-five calls
until the ringer stopped and shot straight
to the jar of your voice.

I clicked the phone shut
and stared at the road in front of me.
Traffic signals reflected scattered rubies
onto the asphalt. When the rubies became emeralds,
I turned left,
traced the route home,
let the gems stay shattered on the asphalt
embedded between tar kernels.

Delilah
I.
Two days after his departure,
I partake in a biblical ritual.

II.
The stylist tightens the black cape
across my clavicle, ties it in a neat
bow at the nape of my neck.
She assembles her arsenal,
scissors and razors that gleam white
 in the too bright salon lights that line the walls.

In the mirror, her reflected eyes meet mine.
What do you want?
Shoulder length. Movement. Anything
but what it is right this moment.

She begins cutting carefully, sidesteps land mines
hidden in casual conversation, carves small talk out of spring air.

III.
In my ear, the slow, methodic sound of shears
slicing through hair follicles is the same
as my scissors cutting crisp cardstock for our invitations.
Every snip sends wisps of golden blonde hair to the floor,
falling in a spiral, like the propeller shaped pods
that cluttered the sidewalks of Cedar City every springtime.

He would scoop them by the handful, twist his fingers
as though they were tops, and send them flying
like tiny helicopters. I laughed then, and he would send more,
a battalion of pods to ambush the ants that congested
the sidewalk cracks near my apartment.

IV.
Where do you wear your part?
Her voice brings me back to my reflection,
and I study the straight line creeping into my scalp.
I don’t remember. I never remember. I guess the right,
and she shifts my part to the side and begins the layers.
I imagine her cutting strands like flower stems, at an angle,
to better soak up water when placed in a vase.

A month ago he gave me roses, pink ones.
Fat, heavy blooms with ruffled petals.
I plucked the leaves and snipped the stems
at an angle, to better quench thirst, and dunked
them in a vase I found above the kitchen sink.

When the blooms hung bulbous, the stems curved
like shepherds hooks,
Mom tied the bunch with string and hung it in our living room
like a dressed deer. It withered and dried in the winter sunlight,
and when she cut it down a week later, petals, dry and light
as fallen leaves, slipped from the choke and crumbled.

V. 
My hair, once grazing my elbows, laden with tangles
and weight, now skimmed the curve of my shoulders.
As I walk out of the salon,
the sky shifts to a burnt orange sunset,
and I drive north towards the curve
in the Wasatch, the opposite of him.
I wait for a crescendo of self-realization
to pass in the moments I drive past numbered streets
back to my home. It never comes, and I am just another girl
who cut her hair in mourning, hoping that the sacrificial locks
that littered the floor like grass cuttings
somehow meant power over all this.



Lilith

You cast me out of your garden
like a gnat whose body you pinched
and flicked
off your skin. You sip your juice
from hollowed wood goblets and laugh
your belly full of nuts and seeds,
but not fruit. No fruit,
not yet.

But you forget, my dear—
our bones formed
from the same churned dust.
My heart is your heart,
my skin your skin,
my ribs your ribs—
but you’ve
plucked one from your body
like a wishbone, burrowed it
inside another,
left a space.
Take heed, my darling—
You have one less rib to protect
that blood-wrapped fist
some will come to call your heart.