Poem for C.


Room Magazine - - POETRY -

I walk home be­hind a man who counts to five on his fin­gers, over and over again. In the park another man does pull-ups on the mon­key bars and for­gets, mo­men­tar­ily, about his son.

I do not look for you in the faces of these strangers.

I am back from Cuba with post­cards of Che I won’t mail.

I would tell you, we rode horses. I tal­lied ev­ery sun­set.

400 miles from here, you are chart­ing new ways of be­ing alone. I be­come ac­cus­tomed to bad weather, am told I have child­bear­ing hips.

On my writ­ing desk I seed an av­o­cado. Give the couch over to empti­ness. I grow up again. K. and H. drive from White­horse to An­chor­age for

Thai food

and I think, that is re­ally liv­ing. I drink tan­ger­ine beer and let my hair

grow long.

Find my pro­file strange in the mir­ror. Sure I must be less than all my parts: or­gan, tis­sue, sinew, bone. I grow up again. Lay my limbs down and

learn dis­tance

with one ear to the floor. I am still my­self though I do not know it this way on the hard­wood. I grow up again. When I think of you

not miss­ing me, it is another kind of miss­ing al­to­gether. Prac­tis­ing my French, I con­fuse pleu­voir with pleurer. As it be­gins to rain, a boy bikes slowly by in red.

There was a beach some­where, and whiskey. You asked how men asked to kiss me. We were talk­ing of pine trees bend­ing easy to wa­ter.

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