the last time (two years later)

another version of this poem lives here.

the last time
(requiem for Alexander Solzhenitsin)

prelude:

I suppose one day we will be lovers

and none of these things will have mattered.

or

I suppose one day we will no longer want to be lovers

and none of these things will have mattered.

part 1:

The last time
is ten cherries in a bag,
smelling her on my hands
the whole way home.

I grab a soda,
they ask:

“what country did you get?”

staring at the same curvy mirrors
she chose not to install:

They ask why I didn’t bring her,
I ask: “did you get those mirrors at – ?”

part 2:

The Tao is falling apart
as she tells me:

“You have camel eyes, beautiful camel eyes”

reflecting back the image of her crying
as we made love:

“I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I ask:

“Do you want to talk about it?”

not until we’ve discussed Kurosawa and
seen how many ways we fall short of the truth.

And all this time in bed

is permeated with the smell of clocks

.esrever ni gninnur

part 3:

Mascara smudged raccoon eyes -
all sex, beauty and Madness.
I see her in that moment,
wild and free and
fractured and lost:

“I want to fall in love with you.”
“I don’t know who I am.”
“I feel all alone.”

We talk around these things, saying nothing, and
I stare at the ceiling, focusing on a point that
doesn’t move. We find our way back
into our clothes:

“I don’t want you to go”

but gravity always wins.

part 4:

She gives me cherries to take with me.
I count, searching for a sign;
there are only ten.

We leave in separate directions:
me east, her west, both headed north,
one short of a prime number.

I found it the next night; her
text arrived at 8:27pm, telling
me that Solzhenitsin died today.