the shipfitter's wife: c is for
cosmology
chamomile tea
carpe diem
café au lait
chrysanthemums
caramel apples
capricorns
it’s for the cosmic dust that appears on the backs of
your eyelids when you’ve rubbed them
and
the conversation my lips have with your spine
(a wordless exchange that goes something like
“I’m not good for you.”
“Break me anyway.”)
it’s for the curl of your fingers around your mother’s hand
when you were one and two and threefourfivesixseveneight
and the way she still looks at you sometimes like she’s hoping
you’re just going to grab onto her real tight again
and call her Mama and let her tie your shoes and comb your hair
but she knows you want her to love you a little less
and her tongue shows the imprint of her teeth from
all the things she wants to say but never does,
but that awful fiery something in her throat will choke
her some day if you don’t let her get it out,
because deep down in the valley between your
right atrium and pulmonary valve,
you know that no one deserves to die
from a broken heart
c is also for all the cliché love songs
about how beautiful his smile is
and you’ll roll your eyes and stick your fingers
in your ears to drown out that 4/4 beat,
but because all melodies have a spot in our bones
your lips still know the words like you know the way home
and it’s for change,
like that time we were driving on the highway with
the windows rolled down and I reached for your hand
like I reach for the moon on a cloudless night
and you looked at me like I had all the answers,
held my hand like your fingers were trying to speak and said,
“Some things won’t ever change. Like numbers and
the speed of light and you and I.”
well it’s been four months and I reach for the moon
like I used to reach for your hand
but c is also for clutter,
the clutter in our homes and the clutter in our hearts,
and how we always say we’ll straighten things up tomorrow
but we’re funny about forgetting even if we’ve managed to forgive,
because somehow the WANTED signs never peel away
completely from our bulletin board hearts
and it’s for champagne,
for that airy, golden promise of a fresh start,
the forgetting of a year that could have gone better and didn’t,
that could have been worse but wasn’t—
because in the grand scheme of things you’re
probably dying just as slowly as the rest of us,
so drink up, cheers, c’est la vie
and remember to love thy crooked neighbor
with all thy crooked heart
