In an art house cinema
we sat in a dark space
your thin body
folded into a filthy chair on wheels,
my limbs propped on a ledge
with wine and crumbs on a wobbly table.
This was supposed to be
our only interaction.
I was sure that the 16 years between us
could in no way bring us together.
Then it’s Halloween
in the French Quarter.
It’s a midway
of robots, werewolves, zombies, drag queens, men in suits.
Of the two of us
I was the only one in costume.
That was a big difference
between me and you.
I was
willing to dress up.
Then Thanksgiving
when my greatest trick
was cracking eggs with one hand
and serving up a roasted turkey
while wearing an apron
and my best skin –
the one I bring out on special occasions;
the one I used to wear to church as an alter boy.
The one I always show
when I want to hide the muck in my veins.
We eventually meet in Chicago
on New Year’s Eve.
We’re swept away
back to an elegant hotel room
where the mirror
captured, with the determination of emulsion,
our forms, my hands on your hips,
your flawless waist, your boots still on; elated and drunk.
Then Baton Rouge
where the crumbling starts to gain traction.
The traffic pours
directly into my lungs.
Being lost for mere minutes
throws me back into the body of a young boy
under my father’s belt.
I’m lost, crying on the streets
of my home town.
Doorbells go unanswered.
groaned with screeching cars and horns.
Sometimes I day dream
about travelling back to my younger self
so that I can tell me
don’t grip so hard – you’ll choke everything.
Would it matter?
Does the ghost of a mouse
morn his demise
after a snake lunges from the weeds
swallows the fur and the tail whole
coiling its limbless body
until the ribs crush the organs
the black, glossy eyes
stop blinking.
Should either regret such a religious experience?
Eventually, it’s Valentines Day
and I show my love with a cactus.
Something that doesn’t die easily;
that needs very little water and attention.
I think those thorns
sent the right girl the wrong message.
I think the wrong message
was all I really had to send.
The timeline
is also marked with Los Angles.
A small, flimsy padded card table
with candles, wine, and our last meal.
The last photograph I would take –
the one I can’t bring myself to delete.
The one that no longer looks like you.
The one that tells me nothing of who you are now.
Too permanent
and too hollow like bird bones.
Finally, the birthday present to you
from you
was to no longer
need me.
It was the best gift
you could have given yourself.
The one, in a moment of clarity,
I insisted you take.
I should have never invited you
to that movie;
not the one on the dull screen
in Orlando ,
Florida
but the one that keeps replaying
over and over on my bedroom wall
with the repetition of a zoetrope
and the faded plastic slides of a carousel.
