Interior: closet
It's strange, when you don't
have the words to articulate it.
(She was tall, with a light-colored bob, young-teacher pretty,
and she told me: You have a lyrical narrative voice,
and I beamed helplessly up at her. Before she left,
she gave me Margaret Atwood. I took the book gladly,
but I never got around to reading it.)
It's awkward-mute-joyful
fascination in an unexpected place
and since you can't describe it,
you keep it to yourself. Sometimes
you forget it's there. Sometimes you
wonder if it's real. There are so few
things missing from your
vocabulary, sometimes you think
you must be overthinking something
perfectly ordinary. Camaraderie.
Admiration. There you go.
(And her shoulders were slight, dark curls tumbling down,
matching dark eyes huge and liquid in her face,
and she clutched her books to her chest
like they kept her warm. I thought about her
at night sometimes. I never told anyone.)
And if you have to get out and push
your recalcitrant heart in the direction you think
must be the right one -- well, who knows?
Maybe all the books are wrong.
Or maybe you just need to grow into it.
(Her hair was red, and looked silky,
and she put her hand on my arm,
listening attentively to someone across the room.
She smelled good. There was a camera crew.
I inched away.)
So you go on assuming it's them,
or it's time, but either way it's not you,
and if you don't respond quite as predicted,
you've been wrong so many times,
and each time you had such absolute
confidence in your answer,
what's once more?
(She was petite, and blonde, and chose her words
so honestly, so beautifully, so sharp you couldn't touch them
or you'd come away bleeding. She loved my work.
I couldn't help but smile shyly at her. She never said anything
and I was grateful.)
(And she was pale and skinny, eyes like tarnish,
hair like September's castoffs drifting all together on the sidewalk.
I recognized her by the cardigan she always wore.
I spoke to her, or she spoke to me, I don't remember,
and the planet kept turning beneath us, the sun
still rose in the east, and suddenly I had the words.)
And eventually it's gone on a little too long.
It's not circumspection anymore.
You know who you are. It's just cowardice.
All you have to do is shut your eyes
take a deep breath
open the door
and step out.
(Hello, world.)
have the words to articulate it.
(She was tall, with a light-colored bob, young-teacher pretty,
and she told me: You have a lyrical narrative voice,
and I beamed helplessly up at her. Before she left,
she gave me Margaret Atwood. I took the book gladly,
but I never got around to reading it.)
It's awkward-mute-joyful
fascination in an unexpected place
and since you can't describe it,
you keep it to yourself. Sometimes
you forget it's there. Sometimes you
wonder if it's real. There are so few
things missing from your
vocabulary, sometimes you think
you must be overthinking something
perfectly ordinary. Camaraderie.
Admiration. There you go.
(And her shoulders were slight, dark curls tumbling down,
matching dark eyes huge and liquid in her face,
and she clutched her books to her chest
like they kept her warm. I thought about her
at night sometimes. I never told anyone.)
And if you have to get out and push
your recalcitrant heart in the direction you think
must be the right one -- well, who knows?
Maybe all the books are wrong.
Or maybe you just need to grow into it.
(Her hair was red, and looked silky,
and she put her hand on my arm,
listening attentively to someone across the room.
She smelled good. There was a camera crew.
I inched away.)
So you go on assuming it's them,
or it's time, but either way it's not you,
and if you don't respond quite as predicted,
you've been wrong so many times,
and each time you had such absolute
confidence in your answer,
what's once more?
(She was petite, and blonde, and chose her words
so honestly, so beautifully, so sharp you couldn't touch them
or you'd come away bleeding. She loved my work.
I couldn't help but smile shyly at her. She never said anything
and I was grateful.)
(And she was pale and skinny, eyes like tarnish,
hair like September's castoffs drifting all together on the sidewalk.
I recognized her by the cardigan she always wore.
I spoke to her, or she spoke to me, I don't remember,
and the planet kept turning beneath us, the sun
still rose in the east, and suddenly I had the words.)
And eventually it's gone on a little too long.
It's not circumspection anymore.
You know who you are. It's just cowardice.
All you have to do is shut your eyes
take a deep breath
open the door
and step out.
(Hello, world.)