-I still have a rattle in my chest
from the cold I picked up
at that pay phone over on Manhattan avenue.

-We were fueling up on the few bucks that were left,
and I had to call my mom
long distance

you never told me what it is you spoke of
a sigh here and some grimace there;
short breaths.

That you caught a cold that day is only
a memory I can recall in the future, once you’re sick
over again with all you take for granted.

-The only things I take for granted
are quick to crumble and scatter
like our voices on a gusty afternoon.

-And in case you really wanted to know
she told me our family dog died. Apparently,
his tongue was dry and hanging from the side of his muzzle.

-Mother always did have a pension for the macabre.

Always, to the little islands where we read.
They’re there still.  In silly, sunny settings.
There were always dead things toting us along.

sham memories we conjured as a ruse to let us kiss.
Like the dead poems we penciled in the hallways
while we fucked ourselves to sleep.  Waking later,
with the room above us,
in handfuls of smoke and rusting sheets.

I remember only the hereafter,
when you told me it was over
and I wrapped into your palms
that picture-perfect smile

you most likely still fancy can interpret.

-Now that you mention it, I had to pay for the wallpaper
and bedding in that hotel room.
The owners couldn't appreciate some of our solid verses
or the way the sheets would never wash out white again.

-I only said I wanted it to be over because I couldn't bear it
ending on any note that wasn't in my own hands.
The open palm would always be waiting
for both of us.

Let’s not echo duplications of a past we
never wanted to recall.  We’re here now.
part your lips and I’ll surrender you my tongue;
faint to be self-conscious in our care
to manner a ridiculous attempt at making love.
For the first time.  For the last.

I’ve stolen roses from the garden.
hold them; before long you’ll have seen
everything’s brief.

This time we’ll keep the walls unsoiled.
we’ll bathe in Epsom salt and tip the busboy.
We’ll light candles and order Casablanca
from the Classic Titles menu.

When we're through,
I’ll pay your cab fare.

-And all this time, I thought we were a pair
of sap-sucking newcomers
to the hotel hopping game.

-I'll sit in the back of the cab to watch you
as you fade behind the steam of the tires.
The driver rolls the windows down
when he hears my cries echoing off
the courtesy plexiglass.

-You're still singing the blues at the front door,
holding our calls and tipping your fedora
to the passing skirts.

-Everything is changing tonight.

We’ll be glad of it.
and free from the hungry monsters within us.

Off in a distance, near a shore
your fiery hands in hands of another
you’ll hum lullabies to a daisy with your eyes
and silently, you’ll wander to a field and think of me,
of dead roses in your hand, and smile.

Tonight we dance our bodies into youth,
in the mist and blur of Chicago streets
we will always be lovers.

Every sappy line
in every black & white film
will be us

encapsulated in a single moment;
my palm cupping your nape
my lips grazing your neck
your silhouette against my own.

we’ll have these starry trinkets to remind us
when life for us settles in the din of day,
with our nightfall affair long out of the rearview.

-I would rather swallow the entire star with a searing tongue
than start a menagerie of could-be's and caresses
in my glass fingers.

-No matter. I can take the miracles as they come
and keep my hands steadfast on the wheel
even in the face of Hurricane Michelle

-where our childhood tree is ripped from its carvings,
the car is tipped onto its side,
and our mouths are gaping eyes of calm.

10/25/2011

Author's Note: This has a life of its own.

Posted on 10/25/2011
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich