PILLOW - WEPT |
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05.20.03 . 6:16 a.m. there are nights i don't have to sing my self to sleep; the sound of the evening stretching & groaning, as it pulls its skin over the hills of its flank, soothes me, down in to the slender crescent curve of my pelvic bone. there are nights that all my memories of you are so far behind my thought, that the moss begins to creep beneath the shingles of them & rot the underbelly of the wood. so what i do, instead of bringing your voice all the way up my throat, just to feel the sting of it in the retching of my uvula, is roll my tongue up to feel the saliva squish to a crest just above the line of my teeth. what i do is measure the vibration of the squeaks in my bed, calculating where, if added together, they would fall on the Richter scale. what i do is try my sides, peeling down sheets, sticking my leg out from beneath the blanket & running my hand between my hipbone & the elastic of my underwear. what i think about is the new poem that i wrote today-- the one about the glow of a pepper plant-- the one i left in the right hip pocket of my jeans. i work out the last stanza in my head, & dedicate it to memory, so that, in the morning, i can write it in against the sun. i have learned to predict when the water purifier will click off, when the pool pump will sigh to a halt, as the light falls over the pitch of the roof. i've taught my self to worry about the clothes in the dryer, running through lists in my head, saying, did i remember to shut off the gas on the stove, did i remember to tell my mother that i love her, did i change the coffee filter. as the clock moves past the minutes, unfurling the new day, i start to stumble clumsily towards the idea of darkness; i still have not thought of you, or practiced my hands as your hands, as i played the strings of my breasts, the taut skin just around my lips, the creases in my upper thighs. i have not thumbed out the sticky layers of my vagina, recalling aloud the ache i felt for the ladder of your ribs, & the muscles that run along either side of your spine. the fact of the matter is, even though i can always tell you precisely how many times the air conditioner has kicked on, only to sputter back out again, while it weighs the heave of the energy crisis against the benefits of feeling cool air move over one's skin, as i lie in bed, watching the headlights flood through my window, you rarely even occur to me. & when you do, it is neither sweetly, nor bitterly, but instead settles in to some lurid space between the two, pulling its hair away from its neck, & staring up through the trees. x |
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