After the Kiss (10 page)

One Art (with apologies to Elizabeth Bishop)

The art of losing is hard to master;

though others do seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss should be no disaster.

Lose someone every day. Accept the loneliness

of lost friends, the hour badly spent with another.

The art of losing is hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

acquaintances, and names, and where it was

you meant

to meet someone. All of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's trust. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved classmates went.

The art of losing is hard to master.

I lost two best friends, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, seven months—a true love.

I miss it. And it was a disaster.

—Especially losing him (the soothing poems, a chest

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's too hard to master

and I know it looks like a disaster.

Sensory Overload

He can't not

think of me I know he

does.

He must.

because I can't

hear

see

smell

feel

find

anything

that doesn't have

his name

his scent

his taste

his smile

his self

all over it.

Extinguished

Once a fire burned in me but now it is extinguished

and I

cannot even catch the scent of smoke.

Ashes, ashes.

Only ashes.

It's been a week of darkness. A week of

nothing, I can't

even remember yesterday.

The artifacts of my disappearance: tissues

strewn across my floor, hair a tangled dirty mess,

jeans hanging on my hip bones

from seven days of being unable to eat.

There is no fire in here. The fire is gone.

I finally write these words—these sodden words—

because once I was a fire-maker, and I don't

know how

to do anything else.

But they are damp words, wet words,

and they will never catch.

Scratching with bits of charcoal,

my hands are black—blackened—

with these attempts.

Not even one coal left

to light a torch, illuminate

what has happened in the last week,

what will happen in the week ahead.

I am blind, scratching in ashes.

There is no fire.

And I am cold.

Message in a Bottle

Midnight? Sunset? I do not know

light from day or dark from darker.

These waves toss me

from room to room,

not really seeing and

tasting only salt.

I am floating on a gray sea, giving

my body to the sharks, my dead heart to the tide,

when a message swims up,

a foreign text in a cell phone bottle:

you are the one who

knows everything in my soul—

which is lost forever.

Heavy with crust my eyes swim gray.

There is nothing anymore I want to see;

these are the scratchings of a crazy man,

someone alone and moored

on an island where the trees bear only

fruits of humiliation

and deceit,

where strange birds call from trees,

and the natives eat

each other's hearts.

Gossip Fodder

Misty Monday gray outside:

weather for a zombie attack,

and perhaps they'd mistake me for their kind.

I stare

into my locker a long time before I can take

anything out,

trying to visualize myself

making it through another week at all,

when Freya appears,

poking her bony bent knees in the backs

of my straight ones,

making my legs half drop out

from under me.

Laughing, her face is all mouth

with four slits for eyelids, nostrils.

The rest, freckles.

So many sometimes—I don't mean to—I wonder

what she got called

on the elementary school playground.

She's had a Blow-Pop for breakfast:

a big wad of pink gum snaps in her teeth

—the sugar cloud floating from her glossy lips—

and her tongue is green.

Just trying to make you laugh,
she smacks,

grimacing a grin.

I feel miserable

and want to be left alone. I'm

not even sure why we're friends anymore,

where she came from,

why she's sticking around,

but I can't say any of that because now

—now that I abandoned

all my other friends for Alec—

she's pretty much all I've got.

Her voice turns serious:
He wasn't there.

And I know where she means and when she means,

and I know who she means and I don't know

if I want to know this or not.

Probably a hot date,
I snort. But she is ready for me.

No but she was. And looking for him, you could tell.

But trying not to.

I had

to hang out in the stoner garage I was so pissed,

seeing her there.

Her gum cracks and her gloss gleams. Her blue eyes

bore into mine. I can see

her nostrils working with excitement.

I don't want to listen to her,

but it is better than just

reading alone in the library,

better than being with no one. And maybe

if Freya spins it right, I can make believe

it really is just another bit of gossip,

and not something awful

happening

to me.

Being Hamlet

We're reading him out loud in class

and Mr. Burland is letting me

be the prince.

Dark days, dark mood,

dark-ness—

the dark of him enfolds me while I read,

and I am wrapped in his misery

instead of mine.

Oh unholy ghost

—oh twisting tempest—

how I too know the paralysis

of loss.

Reading, it's as though I
am
him:

so angry you could weep,

so sad you want to kill someone,

so confused you can do neither.

I read.

And when I am done everyone looks

as though an electric current

has passed through the room.

No one

will look squarely at me.

It is like I've been possessed

and they are afraid

this sorrowed ghost will climb into them too.

Bittersweet Victory

The call for submission posters we created

have done their job.

After school at writer's forum

and Mr. Burland is pleased, handing

two stacks of stories and poems over—already

a pile thick enough for a magazine,

with two weeks still to go

and more rolling in.

Some of these are good,

Sara says, grunting in her own surprise and

handing me a batch to see

for myself.

Even Rama is smiling,

looking over Caitlyn's shoulder, laughing

at a bad metaphor but

quite obviously tickled

by the bounty we've reaped

after such hard work.

We should be

tossing the papers up in the air, letting

these entries rain down on us like confetti.

We have

done better than last year and

our magazine

—from the initial looks of it—

might be

something

we would all actually read.

I should be happy.

I should be proud.

But I should also be able

to tell Alec

about this.

Sighting

Just after the rush of a was-busy Thursday

—people have cleared—and I'm

finally with my bussing bucket out on the floor

stacking sticky latte glasses,

scraping plates of brie-crossaint goo and

mooshed turtle brownie mess.

I

am moving to the next table when

our faces meet like a movie set

—the door swinging open right onto
there she is
—

the girl

kissing Alec in Freya's photo,

the alienishly tall redhead:
her.

the one I saw—yes I know for sure—

at the Lake House

two weeks ago in the kitchen as I

bolted from the party angry at Alec

and hating my life.

I saw her standing there—see her standing now—

and thought

how pretty she was,

and strange, with those red eyebrows.

Last week too—before I knew—

I served her cake.

She came in and

ordered decaf. I thought

it was interesting she was alone.

But now she is here—alone—and all I can think is

I am going to faint and then throw up.

Or maybe throw up and faint.

The rush of blood to the head is so strong I can't see

and then I can't move,

which is when she strides past

—almost close enough to touch—

in her smooth-fitting jeans,

her equestrian boots, and a cashmere wrap that's

going to swallow her.

She is all slow motion:

red hair heaped up on her head, not even

wearing any makeup.

I am going to

collapse. My whole body is

shaking

but somehow I am bolting

—my rag still wet on the table—

to the kitchen and the giant walk-in cooler

where I squat among the bins of pre-cut lemons,

the quarts of organic cream,

wrapping my arms around my shins

—my face pressed in my knees—the cold giving me

a real reason to shudder.

I gulp in

big breaths of dry, cardboard-smelling air.

I want to cry

but I can't.

I am already going to be in trouble

for leaving Margot out there,

for abandoning my post.

I cannot cry.

—I must go back out there I can't stay in here

another minute—

I cannot cry.

—I will never stop crying—

I can't.

Borrowed Determination

Emerging finally

from the safe, dark caverns of the kitchen

—damp-faced and still shaking—

unsteady

on my feet,

I am unsure

if I can face

the face

that just waltzed in.

What's wrong with
you
?
Margot says

with more disgust than concern—

making Nadia turn,

bringing the crying in me all over again.

My friend is

immediately

two small hands on my shoulders,

face set with strength.

She's here,
I whisper.
She came in.

(Trailing unstoppable images of

her face-his-face-their-hands

behind her, reeking the perfume of

he-picked-me-not-you.)

Nadia's tiny fingers squeeze

into my muscles,

she whispers

—but it is a warrior scream through my spirit—

You will not let her beat you.

Staring Contest

Does she have eyes

in the back of her head? Brown glaring mean ones

under all that red hair?

Is she somehow watching me

—watching her—

without moving a muscle,

without lifting her chin,

not even when

I overheat

a whole carafe of steamed milk that bubbles over

everywhere and

Margot says
Shit
loud enough to hear?

She must because the rest of her is

unmoving,

uncaring,

and perfectly blank—seeing, I guess

who can outcool who,

who can do it without ever

losing

her cool.

If so I am already losing.

If so she doesn't have to rub it in.

She can't have

just walked in here, she has to

know who I am. (She can't have just walked in.

Why else is she here?)

Maybe she is waiting

for me to say something first, is challenging me

in some secret code I don't know.

By now the back of her head

must be burning

from where my eyes are boring holes into it.

Soon her whole face will be on fire,

and she will look over, melting.

But no—

after two hours on that laptop she gets up, glides out,

doesn't look back or sideways,

leaving me alone at the counter

the image of her burned in my eyes

for a very long time.

Secret Knowledge

After work I want to call Freya

—call someone—

since I can't call Alec. I want to say

She came in today;

I know her. And she doesn't know me.

I want to tell a person

who isn't Nadia, someone

who will have a little more

Ohmygod
in their voice, someone just as stunned

and astonished

as I was this afternoon,

someone who'll want to hear

all the mean things inside me,

who will throw in one or two things herself.

Telling Freya though

will mean telling

half the school,

and I want to keep this to myself awhile:

a small stone of poison to roll between my fingers—

unsure how to use it

unsure

how much harm it could do.