When you are that close

I hold my breath.

I wanted to leave

a story full of poems

for your closed eyelids

my treasured gift for you

but you get so many of those

that another one gets lost in the maze.

I guess I could take so much more pain

than I ever thought possible

taking advice from a nineteen year old

while listening to Louis Armstrong

modern and ancient meet in my head

collide and inhale that rough voice

with the air

gasping and imagining

that hot sweaty jazz club

in Chicago

where we met

for the first time

during the solo.

Now all is forgotten

buried in tarnished boxes

but suddenly the scene switches

to the Modern fucking world

and Neko Case

is singing Furnace Room Lullaby

and I hide

away from that part in the song

that can destroy every part of me

easier than your words can ever do.

It is alright though

my books of poetry

will probably never get done

I will hold them adrift

through my apartment

where I’m not so high in the sky

but I could run up the stairs like a teenager

above the squirrels

hiding always hiding

but I hear them

as I hear you

in the silence.

Sometimes not even a beating heart is near me

only the heat on my face flushing me

from my mom’s chicken soup

with lots of lemon and egg whites

apparently it heals all, she says.

I’m beginning to believe in the healing of food

more than love.