Somewhere between a spring-like winter
and a winter-like spring,
I lost you, lost you even as you strolled
beside me. Over clams and calamari
at The Little Owl, over chicken kori kebabs
at Kismat, you concealed
the matter behind smiles, behind drinks.
And what was the matter?
That you had fucked half of Manhattan
and all of Queens. That your exes, in dark puffy coats,
circled your building like fat birds of prey, waiting
for me to leave to swoop down and feast.
What was the matter?
That only countless men,
with rough talons and piercing beaks,
could drag you back to what the first man
you knew subjected you to.
That no man, certainly not me,
could convince you of a different kind of coupling.
Dinner might as well have been my body—
not satisfied, you devoured strawberry crepes,
their guts smeared across your lips.
In bed I drank Macallan to sleep
but could not sleep, could only watch
as night blanched and passed out.
The day you left, you wore a black frock
and black, studded clogs, gliding
through the room like ever-moving night.
I have moved too, dragged
by the illness that drove me to you.
Click here to read Dana Crum on the origin of the poem.
Image: “This is MY turf!!” by Gabriel Rocha, licensed under CC BY 2.0
No Comments