Tuesday, January 26, 2010

split ends of long hair

i've been craving for days some thoughtful
time with books and paper and coffee -
to scribble down the poem from friday
night that got lost in those few frame
moments before sleep as the evening's
wine swirls into my ears, convincing me
i'll remember the line of verse tomorrow
in the bright morning light and by that
time it's lost, gone forever in dreamland,
hardly remembered, not enough for even
half a sentence. something about her
beautiful, sad eyes the way i saw them
on her, her sitting curled up in a loosened
men's shirt, talking, putting her hair
behind her ear.

now i'm sitting here being interrupted
by an angel who keeps asking me
"did you try?" and my lack of bravery
keeps my mouth silent, i can't say
no, it hurts, so i stare at her and she
knows what i can't speak. writing and
music and acting, she hits all the nails
on the head, giving me all this free
advice but most of all exposing myself
to myself, the things i've already known.
sitting down to coffee only moments
before engaging me in conversation,
then rising halfway through it and
carrying herself out at the close, as
if coming just to talk to me.
"you should write a novel," she says.
"yes," i says.

"if something is supposed to happen,
it will," he says. my father on the
phone today. and i don't know what
it all means, or if it means anything
at all. so i come home, to an empty
house and whisper things to myself
and try to search in my ears for all
the lost poems that slip as i sleep,
hoping someday they'll all come
back to me. i think about her
beautiful, sad eyes and concentrate
on her image and shape and the
way i felt happy. the way his chin
and smile and eyes and hair are all
new again. and how the porch
felt old again. and the more i think
the more i'm afraid i'll lose it all
as if just to scribe something makes
it all real and without words on the
page, it feels as if it never happened.

2 comments:

Brittany said...

this is beautiful.

Carrie said...

LOVE this. You continue to inspire me, Ms. Criss.