Friday, January 23, 2009


You were angry when I said his name at dinner
the other night,
after the reading,
when we all braved the spotlight
and the awkward reverb from the mic
and we ordered a feast
and 12 year old scotch
cause why not? This is what we do in the city
when everyone else is behaving themselves
and making money.

We order Petite Sirah
and beers and 12 year old scotch
(didn’t I already mention that?)
and we feast like the kings and queens of ancient lands,
which really,
we are.

And we almost get thrown out of our favorite
old bar all because my husband tried
to illustrate the notion of chaos by climbing up on the bar
and taking the payphone off the hook
and scoffing at the fascist bouncer

and then we get turned out of other bars,
bars that have been around so long Honest Abe
and John Lennon both graced their door
but not us, I guess, not tonight, and besides
we aren’t done yet.

The point is I said his name
And I know I shouldn’t have said it.
I could feel the tiny letters tickling their way
up my throat and I couldn’t wash them away
like the waterfall
couldn’t wash either of us away
like the years won’t change anything for you.

But you cocked an eyebrow
and then brushed it off.
It is part of the lore, and I understand that.
But just this once I wanted to test the waters
of memory and separate the fact from fiction.
I wanted to peel apart the layers of you and I
and a friendship that is older than both of us
that started back at the pop and snap of the universe starting
just to see exactly how we manage to come together
over and over again.

All I’m saying now
is that there are things that need to be said, love
at microphone stands in front of phony artists
and things that need to be whispered to the moon, barely inaudible
and things that need to be shouted from the architecture
as you dance through the night owning this city.

But nothing,
for you
should be unutterable.

No comments:

Post a Comment