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
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.