N—

12:34 am, or in 24-hour, modified-push-up, phonetic time, 0034. You left a little while ago and all my sleepiness from the couch and the fireplace and the sea-foam-green-seaweed-wrapped-sushi-roll-throw-blanked turned to nerves. The prevailing image here: a wood-framed window thrown open by a storm. Can’t you just hear it?

[ r e d a c t e d ]

I think that maybe, maybe, tal vez I was a poet before but now I’ve been reduced to guttural throat sounds and low, rumbling belly sounds and open-close-open lung doors. Return to me my voice, words, and sanity. As in, what I mean to say— fuck off, please.

If and when sleep comes, and I hope it comes soon, there will be more somersaults in the snow, I reckon.

—

Sometimes by night, I don’t know why, I awake thinking of prepositions.

I woke up this morning mouthing eyeohwah.

No mouth sounds or construction sounds or any sounds really. My sister departed early for Colorado Springs with her friends and left a note— “Be safe.”

Why would she tell me to be safe, here, in my own home? I’ve been thinking about it all day (the time, now, 5:36 + 12 = 1736). Does she sense danger? Or is it sometimes we wish upon others the things we hope wished upon ourselves? Like, did she want me to tell her to be safe but because I wasn’t there she told me to be safe? But then I thought of how you wished me to be safe while crossing the street. And then I thought of bike signals. And then I thought of broken bones. And then I remembered you had a dangerous word for me. And then I wanted to hear it. But in my impatience (you hesitated for so long), I’ve allowed it 8 lives.

You forgot to give me my second word in the confusion. I cauterize, now, using cayenne pepper in vodka sauce. (Aside: remind me, later, to show you how to say “vodka sauce” properly).

My mother calls and tells me to put half a tablespoon of turmeric in my mouth, as far back as I can go with the spoon, and let it roll down my throat. She says, don’t swallow or cough or throw it up, even though you’ll want to. She says, wait as long as you can to drink water, give it time to work its magic. She says, I’ll call you in the morning to check if you did it. I say, like a dying pre-pubescent-frog-burro, how will you know I did it? She says, your voice will be back.

I think I’ll fill the rest of the spoon with prayer. I’ll let the turmeric-half make me pure and let the prayer-half work its magic: oh god, oh word, please please please let me speak in the morning.

—

1942

Pardon me, Sergeant W—, but I was wondering if I may leave a poem here? And here?

“…We are strangled by bitter light.
Our bones shake like sticks.
We snap.
We grope.
We pant and go dry.
Our tongues are black,
All day is endless.
Nights endless.
Our skin crawls, it cracks.
Our room is a cat who plays with us.
Our hope is a noose.
We take our flesh in our teeth.
The autumn blows us as chaff across the fields.
We are sifted and fall.
We are hung in a void.
We are shattered on the ocean.
We are smeared on the darkness.
We are slit and drained out.
Little things drink us.
We lie unburied.
We are dust.
We know nothing…”

— Anne Carson, “God’s Beloveds Remain True”

“It was a November night of wind.
Leaves tore past the window.
God has a book of life open at PLEASURE

and was holding the pages down with one hand
because of the wind from the door.
For I made their flesh as a sieve

wrote God at the top of the page
and then listed in order:
Alcohol
Blood
Gratitude
Memory
Semen
Song
Tears
Time.”

— Anne Carson, “God’s List of Liquids”

—

2121

I keep crimsoning at the thought of you reading Dorian Gray. You read beautifully. I want you to read Chapter 2 to me too. And Chapter 3.

This. This is what I mean. This greed: gluttonous, lustful. It scares me. I want to spend now, here with you. Come back.

Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday. You’ll likely see this on Tuesday. Text me now! Tell me a word! Don’t keep reading until you’ve texted me. Now don’t keep reading until I respond. Wait, as I do, for your words.

Wait…
Wait…
Wait…

You alright, babe? Oh I do hope future-me takes ages to text you back. I prolly won’t— I’m a right melt, innit? Yes, yes, yes I fancy you. Are you chuffed? Gobsmacked? Cheesed off?

—

0035

Ugggggghhhhhh.

As the snow in my snowglobe shifts and settles, tell me something real. Press my hand into the monkey bars until it welts. And in return,

N—: Tell me everything you can feel.
A—: Darkness, Discontinuity, Depravity, Solitude, Speech, ___________.

N—: Maybe tell me to be quiet.
A—: Shut the fuck up.

N—: Tell me what word can and cannot do.
A—: A word can leave you on your bed howling. A word cannot howl and gash itself.

N—: Maybe tell me to be quiet.
A—: I said… Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

N—: Tell me a dream you had as a child.
A—: I dream often, and reoccurring, of my teeth falling out. One by one. And my tongue forking and extending and scrambling to catch them before they fall.

N—: Maybe see me trying to tell you.
A—: What? A dangerous word? Well, go on then.

Insert a dangerous word here,
s—

P.S. To escape god, who is burning, burned glass can be of some use.
P.P.S. To escape a nose which has been broken again and again, use a red thread and an old gold glove.
P.P.P.S. To escape a lost sound, use turmeric. Don’t swallow or cough or throw up.