Sunday, February 15, 2009

after the intervention

Check yourself out on a Monday
your toes are pink
with the wear and tear of life;
you fucked everything with legs
for ten years out of thirty;
you've never stopped moving back and forth
in and out, in one place;
it's been so long you've lost yourself.

Drink gin on a Tuesday
like it's water, like it doesn't burn;
you made a fool of yourself
at my wedding,
sat on cold cement until you cried
and grabbed women's ankles
and told them you loved them
and you did.
You do.

Smoke coffin nails on a Wednesday
to the tips, 'till your fingers sting;
you stood outside my building
bound at the wrists with your sadness;
you said, "Honey I always loved you,"
I said, "You have already filled up your shoes
with the devotion of others,
and I am married,
so stop touching my thigh,"
and you laughed and you sighed
and you left me again.

Get help on a Thursday
from a man on the street
with good stuff at good prices;
you lay on your back with a woman
whose legs were like trunks
and you made her leave before
her roots had planted.

Leave town on a Friday
first train you can wake for;
you left a note at my door
spelling mistakes spilling over;
it asked for so much
and it promised so little,
nothing but a time and a place
and you were always so lost and so late.

Think on a Saturday
think thoughts you haven't thought
since bracelets made of paper
sat on hospital linens
and nurses bent over your face
like beautiful, sexual mothers;
their breasts were like so many
lives that you had harnessed.

Rest on a Sunday
listening to 
women crying.

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