Girl in Blacksburg [NaPoWriMo 2008]

I made it!

30 April 2008.

[Last one! Last one I’ll post here, anyway …]

Master, I Will Never Abandon You

I worship at your feet
for a reason—because
you ask, because you want,
because you demand, because
you desire. Desire dulls
my pain. Desire drugs me
to the quick. Desire your arms
around me. Desire your hands
holding me down. For all
the control I have over my life,
sometimes I want you to take
it from me. Sometimes I want
you to show me how to love.
Sometimes I want surrender. 

29 April 2008.

[One more poem to go.]

I Hold the Interlude in My Hand and I am No Longer Burned 

for Will

He has a dream, I said, as the martinis pulled
us into the leather couch. I don’t need to say
that his dream and me never intersect. I am past
that. I think I am past that. But then we fuck
and I am not past that at all. I am drowning
in that, I am handcuffed in that, I am taking
that in the face at fifty knots. I am never that,
and I am always reminded. Drink enough mead
to kill self-loathing and the rest goes with it.

I am never that, I think, as I write this five
hundred miles away. I cut and I cut and I cut
and now this space is clear, this forest
has no trees, there’s no makeout under cover
of fresh bloom. I am drawn to even more
unreachability. I desire things that will never
make me that. I am not pearls and pressed
collars. My sly grin is a mask. My ring finger
will always be bare. I will never be that. 

28 April 2008.

[I don’t think I will ever lose my fascination with mountains.]

When Not Provided With Answers, I Decide to Fill in the Narrative Myself

My manners are not poor enough to ask What was it like
to tell those damn kids to get off your lawn? to your face,
but they certainly could have been better. Many things
certainly could have been better, like an unspoiled
patch of grass, like windows open to spring breezes,
like laughter that follows after you like devoted pets.
Many things certainly could be better. But they’re not,
and they won’t ever be, and decaying papers tell
the stories better than we can. Decay is all around
us now. She stepped out completely without regret—
did you know? Did she tell you? I feel her ghost
when I see him, I see her draped over his shoulder
as he sits. I want to tell you that she looks happy,
but I can’t ever see her face. She won’t allow it.
I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this. She’s words
on a screen, she’s a candid photo flipped over
on his bookshelf, she’s the wife I never wish
to be. But I’m telling you, I see her everywhere.

27 April 2008.

[I don’t know about you, but I think that hearing an interpretation of words you’ve written by trained actors is pretty hot.]

What I Want to Tell You When I Say That “I’m Chill”

I am lying. I am lying like a hostage with a death
sentence over their head. I am lying like Oliver
North. I am lying like a senior advisor in the Bush
Administration making the case for war. I am lying
like a philandering husband.

I am lying, I am lying, I am lying.

I want you to cover my eyes and tell me to stop
worrying. I want you to pull my hair and tell me
to focus. I want you to wrap your hands around
my neck and tell me life is short. I want you
to fuck me until I faint dead away.

26 April 2008.

[Writing poems at a sustained pace like NaPoWriMo demands is so liberating. But can I carry this over to the rest of my writing life?] 

Why I Made Out With You When You Discovered Me Crying in the Library Stacks

You’ve already seen me destroyed, like the night I raided your wine cellar
and liberated a bottle of cabernet and your signed copy of Bright Lights,

Big City and passed out on the porch swing. I was crying then too, but
you didn’t notice.  Last night at dinner—everyone was at dinner—I watched

a couple just past the edge of our cataclysm talk their way through a first
date. They were shy and wholesome and everything we are not. Between us,

we’ve broken up at least half a dozen marriages. So what’s one more,
I think, as your palms settle on my streaked face, as your hands wind

into my crazed poet hair, as we kiss like a bad decision trying to be good
through sheer force of will. So what’s one more. 

25 April 2008.

[This is for fellow first-year MFA Kate Kimball, who I promised during a seminar that I would write a poem with iced coffee in it. There is iced coffee in this poem, but then the poem decided to get the hell away from me and do its own thing.]

After Drinking a Large Iced Coffee, I Decide it’s High Time to Chase You Down

The light brown liquid goodness might as well
have come in a bucket, a big bucket, with a warning
label marked CAUTION: This beverage may be emotionally

damaging. The lecture hall buzzes under my skin.
Conversations flit around my unstilled, shivering
hands. You are an addict, someone whispers.

I see your story in a far corner and follow the words
like crumbs across buildings and concrete, back
to the library yet again. Somewhere in the dusty classifications

and the white noise jumping into my brain—somewhere you
are here. I pull you out of a forgotten database, read your mindmaps
as deconstruction, wipe away the years with my fingers. Your faded

eyes duck behind your hands as I trace your line.

24 April 2008.

[Yesterday was the last class meeting of my poetry workshop. The course’s instructor of record is also my thesis director. But that’s another story entirely.]

Titles of Poems I Wanted to Draft for National Poetry Writing Month, But Didn’t

Why I am Not Going to Brunch With “The Divider”. The Office
Wife Gets Her Comeuppance. April Evenings With You. I Kept
a List of All the Times I Looked at You in Order to Break
the Habit. You are Not an Acceptable Replacement. Things
I Need to Tell You When I Eventually Stop Crying. The Last
Time I’m Contractually Obligated to See You. Barefoot
on the Drillfield at 2AM. The Ruiner. What Else is There
to Say? Your Secret is Safe in My Shaky Hands.
Humming Robyn Hitchcock’s “Beautiful Girl” While
Walking Up Main Street. I am So Fucking Tired of Writing
the Same Poem Over and Over Again. I Miss You, I’m Sorry,
I Miss You.

23 April 2008.

[Three weeks go by quickly.]

On the Realization That the Opaque Shade in Our Bedroom is a Metaphor for Our Relationship 

The blog post I found
by accident two months
before we first slept together
said I had a one in five
chance of landing you.
One in five! Scoring
that one was easy.

Dealing with your baggage is not so much.

I talk around the loss
and the abandonment
and the frustration over
bringing imperfection
into the world. Those
are not my scars. You hide
them behind a screen
I can see and touch
but not pass through.

Your blood is tainted with regrets.

I push at the faded
cuts on your arms.
There is so much
I am not allowed
to accept. A breeze
flutters the curtain
until it stills again,
placid, blank.

22 April 2008.

[I can’t believe I’ve made it this far in NaPoWriMo.]

One of Many, One of One

This works best, I say, when
he’s in the drudgery of his life.
When he’s not a rockstar drowning
in ass, accentuating the word ass
to make some sort of statement,
a gesture toward how ludicrous
the entire situation is unfolding.
Sometimes he doesn’t answer—
that’s when I know I’m one
of many. And I can never compete
with many. My words crumble
and fall apart in the face
of the living and breathing.
I push at the construct I’ve built,
poke and prod along the edges
of this persona shell. It will unravel
eventually, assuredly, as pages
cleave away from each other
as a book opens, as the prose
is exposed. As I’m exposed.
One of one implies alone
even when it whispers otherwise.