if I seem quiet sometimes it’s because my eyes follow the storm as it moves across the sky and when spring comes I am always talking to you in my head. the you that I talk to is someone who can feel time passing when they touch my skin, then gently peel it back, lift the rim of my mouth, and slow it down. because spring makes me remember the jeans that I wore when I first moved to Portland, how much pot I smoked as I watched the blinking red light on the hill opposite my window, how nick slept in a hammock all year and the potatoes that sat in soda cans on his desk, the green sprouts pushing through the rough layer of skin and mud like neon tongues. how we drank pabst and talked about olesha and bukowski and he never once asked me if I was okay, if things were better between me and the boy I had betrayed. he cooked dinner instead. spring makes me remember the church of elvis, where it all began, and then the wind in my stomach moves faster and I feel like all my words will spill out. I don’t care to know where we go when we die. I just want to know what happens to all these rooms, all these voices. where did the nights that I drank wine with artemis go now that I am here with you walking down sunset? what I mean is does one reality replace another or are my eyes ghosts? and what happens to these questions if I shut up and look at you as we stand here on the corner waiting for the light to turn, your hands shoved deep into your pockets because you say you come from a warmer place. what happens if I am not scared that you see me doing this?
1 response so far ↓
1 mackenzie // Mar 12, 2008 at 12:15 pm
Hey Natalie,
sorry it has taken me so long to get to work on this. I been rambling out west in The Big Ugly, getting lost way up snowy roads, doing a lot less and dreaming a lot more.
Anyway, excuses aside I’ve been loving your poems. Please post more! I just redrafted this poem the way I redraft my own, seemed like the best way to workshop without the benefit of paper and face to face to discussion. Also I got ahold of liz, or she got a hold of me any how. I’ll be emailing her to encourage to post some poems ASAP, she had some log in issues but i think those have been resolved.
So keep throwing poems up, bia!
if I seem quiet sometimes it’s that my eyes follow the storm across the sky, but when spring comes I am always talking to you in my head. you tell me you feel time passing when you touch my skin. you peel it back, lift my mouth, slow it down. spring makes me remember Portland, watching the blinking red light on the hill opposite my window, how Nick slept in a hammock all year while the potatoes in the soda cans on his desk pushed out sprouts like neon tongues. how he never asked me if things were better with the boy I betrayed. he cooked instead. spring makes the wind in my stomach move faster. where are the nights that I drank wine now that I am here with you walking down Sunset? does this day replace the other or are my eyes ghosts? and if I look at you as we stand here on the corner waiting for the light to turn, your hands shoved deep into your pockets and I am not scared that you see me? you say you come from a warmer place and I say I don’t care to know where we go when we die. I just want to know what happens to all these rooms.
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