Memories and Politics

Desecration.
It is a word not often used
By journalists
Something sacred that has been marred by something like Satan

Swastikas on Jewish tombstones across the Atlantic:
France feels so far away,

And yet

And yet we recently had our own Nazi rally

And yet

It seems like it was an eternity ago

and yet

Obama was still president at the end of 2015 and I...
Did not even know you then.

The past three weeks feels like an entire lifetime
I think about driving an hour to your house in Hickory and
How that was a whole other person
In a whole other relationship -

Michael asks,

"Which one did you like better?"

And I say - the one between then and now
Because now:

It feels painfully serious
And I feel afraid of it tipping over
The glass is so filled with intimacy and full throttle emotional fuel cells...

And then,
 it felt like I never knew where it was going but it was an exciting ride, yes?
Not. Too. Serious.
Keeping everything at arm's length intentionally...

And the in between:

It felt like memories before they happened - 

Quiet dripping of old faucets,
The makings of black and white films: nostalgia,
Living in the middle of something that was happening and something that happened
 and a thing
 yet

to come.

The dog would bark
And you would be there.

Sometimes unexpected but you always came back.
You always came home...
I always knew what to call that.

The Darkest Hours

Portrait of you
Painting on my skin
4AM
Painting with my fingers
In pale, lonely darkness
Fingertips are my breath
Breath silhouette:
You.

On Eating Burritos

Some days are made
For staring
Blank at the white ceiling
And going over your mistakes in your mind
Numbering them
1, 2, 3...
And assigning them rank and file while you wrap your fingers around your knees
4, 5...
Like a parade and a drummer beating out time
You can't take back the things you said
The way you went about things
The things you saw... you can't unsee them.

I saw a picture of you today.  You'd lost weight, like you said you wanted to.
Like the doctors said you should.
I'm proud of you, you know.  Really proud.
It's not my business
But I realize now,
You've always done what you said.

Your Poetry

Your poetry wraps around me
Like the cold air of the August summer
In the Carolina mountains
Like trees whistling
Like the castles on the chess set
Black and white and stalwart
And yet
On their edges
Somehow free
Somehow mobile
Somehow moving
Somehow changing
Over and over
You stand with your arms crossed
Showering in the passing headlights
Head bowed.  Eyes soft.  Upturned chin.
You shuffle childish feet
Blow the permeable carbon dioxide into starving star crusted horizon
The moon is barely there
Barely breathing
A bite missing.  Behind it?  Azure Silence and Blackness.
Your poetry...
I hide my smile behind teeth marks and pull my scarf from my backpack.
I touch your chin and say,
"Autumn is coming."