LauraLaura likes it when it rains outside. As the sound of raindrops splashing onto the roof above us builds, she shivers, and turns to me. "You know," she says, "the sound of rain is like the sound of leaves in the forest behind the house I grew up in." She sighs. She is fond of telling me this. "Really?" I say, "It must be nice there." "It is nice," she replies. She sighs again.I am in love with Laura. She knows this, but she also has no idea. She will never understand how I love her, and this will be the greatest tragedy of my long life.When we run out of words, about the rain, or other things, we sit in silence at the kitchen table and I try to memorize her features. At night, when she sleeps next to me, I try to bring her face to mind in the dark and am often dismayed to find I cannot. She is not beautiful in the way of butterflies -and would I love her if she were? -but beautiful in the way of storm clouds. I know her thin brown hair. I know her grey-green eyes- those eyes that plea
An Unsung Song to NayeliThere was a time when, disappointed by the world outside of ourselves, I would lean back and twirl sonnets through your hair. We would lie in sleeping bags, with rain dripping into the corners of our tent, and sip revolutionary ideas from bottles youd brought from the reserve. You would be Socrates, and I would be Plato and occasionally we would dance in eager violent steps. Mostly we slept. Sunlight would appear at its convenience through gaps in the mosquito netting and play Midas. The auras of fog that blurred our silhouettes glowed golden. The raindrops we shook from our hair gleamed.There was an apple tree in a farmers field nearby, and you would climb to the tallest boughs with your hungry arms and then jump- back into the bounds of earthly life with me. Always eager. Always laughing as you soared downwards. You were made of the same atoms as rainbows.September became October. And October turned to frost on in the fields and ice at the edges of the river.
The beginningI was lying in bed in the same position I'd been resorting to every night for the past few months: stomach down, arms brought in close to my torso, ankles crossed... my head tilted precariously on my shoulder. I didn't like it because it was particularly comfortable, but rather because it allowed me to observe the wall behind my bed. It isn't a very interesting wall. It's orange... or terra cotta- depending on how pretencious you're feeling, just like every other wall in my room. It doesn't move or shift shape, or give me answers about my life, though I know that's what the word "observe" suggests. Unfortunately, it's just a wall.The paint on it has the texture of the inside of a Crunchy bar, and every few feet there's a drip because my Dad and I painted too quickly. There's a giraffe mask on it that I like to tell people I bought in Africa but that really came from Home Sense. It doesn't inspire me. Nor do my silk pillows. Or my sheets that don't match. Or my carpet with the cat hair
ThoughtIf I were not myself, but something moreWould thoughts still be mere impulsesAnd currents,Or could I hold them?Could thoughts be solid things to pick upOn sunday afternoonsAnd shelter us from cold?If my thoughts became sculpturesWould they be beautifulOr hideous;Or both in the way that photographs of deathStill draw our eye?If thoughts became foundationsWould they form a pyramidOr a towerOr quicksand?Could you make love to an idea?Drown it in sweet red wineAnd then let caress it, marry itDivorce it when it gets dull and you are beautiful...Oh you my love,Are you real or circumstantial,Questions of relativity...If we are so many places at onceDoes it matter where we went?