Author: debjoel

in this time just

after     after we finish

the meal     the

moment when

the waitress stands

with our check     smiles

as waitresses

smile     distant

in a way that’s

heavy     she’s    

worked here for years      the

restaurant we’ve

driven by without

stopping     driven by

while going

to the harbor for an

evening boat

ride     old-style

paddlewheel tracing

the lakeshore     where

we met    brought

together by

chance at the

railing     leaning

into a black breeze     the

paddlewheel passed

a restaurant set back

from the shore     the

same restaurant where

we’ve just had

dinner     a pleasant

meal     a meal

eaten to music whispering

from speakers hidden

in the ceiling

tiles     music

that isn’t really

music     music created

specifically for

restaurants     for

supermarkets     for

department stores     music

nobody actually

listens to     notes

vaguely simulating

music     how nice

it would be if this

restaurant had real

music     if it had a dance

floor and I asked

you to dance     if we got

caught up by an

internal rhythm     caught up

to move into

one another     move

as word follows

word to form a perfect

sentence     even

though     even

though     though when

was the last time we

danced     could it

truly be at our

wedding     could it

be more than thirty

years ago     decades

gone by and

no time since     not

at any other

wedding     wedding

of a friend     of the child

of a friend     and

wow     and wow     and

how can that

be     how

can that be our

only dance    a dance

not of now     the now

of imitation music

and the waitress with

our check     smiling

and resting on her

feet     breathe

in     breathe out     breathe

and smile     a nice

young woman     still

smiling as she

leaves     as she

gives us time

to prepare

a credit card and

decide on the amount

of a tip     leaves through

the doors that separate

the dining area from

the kitchen     leaves

to do whatever

it is that

waitresses do when

there aren’t any

tables needing

service     when I almost

say to you how much she

reminds me of

Jenny     Jenny named

after your aunt     Jenny

the music lover     real

music     Jenny the

singer     Jenny the

guitar player     who

drove away one

morning     who took the

car keys from the

hook by the front

door     the hook I

installed so we’d

always know where

to find the

keys     the morning

when I made pancakes

for breakfast     the

morning before Jenny

would have gone back to

college     pancakes

and we’d run out

of syrup      I’ll go get

some     what Jenny

said     taking the keys

from the hook     the

keys rattling

softly     wrapping her

hair in the scarf

you made for

Christmas     driving

off but not driving

back again     and the

waitress     who has the

same kind of

hair     long and dark

and straight     and

I come this close to

saying how the

waitress and Jenny

could be twins     in that

moment     that

moment when

you can tell the

words I almost

say     that

moment when the

notes of an

imitation song

touch our hearts

with tiny claws

Until strain the salted year? Freshly

drawn in smoke, blown by wind to who

knows where. Their distant retreat, nights

of twisted roots, the doors all closed, the

hours run aground, gone lame and lost in

soft penitence. Not today. Not by a cemetery

or under the shadows of buddha’s walled

city. No sorrow in becoming forgetful,

no matter what. Call up the dreams of

polished stones and bubbles frozen in time.

At the end of the world a blind dog climbs

ten rugged hills and jumps into the sun. Lost

and found. Never was, or will be. Because

her howl, a prayer? Or good good night

at long long last. Between the sweaty

hallucinations of lambent children,

whatever were their precious names.

Gone headlong into mist while we

speak with the voice of birds.

unlock the door to morning     caught

in emphysemic breath     remember horses

from a dream     lit up by radium     waiting for their master’s

blessing before carrying us into soft-edged

mist     remember a distant arroyo and spinning our heels in

marionette fashion     reaching for a hammer to fracture Galileo’s

sacred nebulae     pushing out from the place we promised

never to mention again     where there are no more

days     good or bad      where we draw and

redraw lightning bolts in the air

with bones

subtract from

the garish bones of

guilt     opaque in

sand     when sink into sand     shaded

on shards     when

voices piled in

the sky     nobody at

fault that the seams come

loose     they were a product

of insufficient time     the

betrayal of sugary-logic     as

felt between breaths     as

taken by tender

gloved hands     to

sing madrigals in black

dresses     to climb

and rest

in limbo’s lap

speak god not in words

and not god.

walk the two of us across a baker’s field,

into the nation of ghosts.

they simmer to

our inner. their conversation

of moonlit

phrases.

leave behind. go where go

can’t matter. leave behind, despite

laughter. how us falling

into a trance and fall

wayward. here, the entirety

of cold tumble.

staggered.

while smiling at sad lakes and visions

from the past. a house of bright

windows. a library

humming with fluorescent light.

a day of kitchen weather. a

roadmap of wrinkles.

What you and always. What I, by

remembrance. In sight of

stillwater. Like wrapped in furs overtight,

the carry of past saga while lying

bareback on stones rolled glassy by

sleepless surf. As run with legless drift

through and through. Deposit leftover

energy. A gift of maybe no before

reach past the inner to what, reach

for the lake. As swimming

to a waiting breast. In shush

and suckle and leave behind

a skein of evaporating wakes.

From the beginning of existence,

the very end.

that’s gravity, like mountains

in the mouth.

fill me with everything under the sun.

socks. canned meat.

the family dog. too much, although

the temptation to explore a little deeper.

into secrets learned very early on.

how it should be. stay until

the locks all open.

we’ve seen it written in the stars.

you come tearing down the stairs,

hands wild and grasping.

the years have gone to salt,

begging for gifts that never arrive.

they wouldn’t

be gifts, anyway.

you break bread with

smoke. bring it no longer

to the middle or off to one side.

these, our broken fingers. or

thoughts in tangle

and we rest against tombstones.

drunk on someone’s hallucination,

in love

with lunging knives.

lounge amid pillbugs.

unbathed.

given over to earth.

then avoid moon-washed cities      because

lost souls reach

out for abandoned bodies     never

too soon     now in the

evening when

we inhale boomerang waters     endless by

blackened woods     review or regret     what

if glue the forbidden parts

of life back into

place     or color them     or red     or hesitantly

touch meek regions     not

out of

embarrassment     when unavoidable

information     the forfeited

moments

As fainting

into stoveflame.

Brokenhearted.

Take a forceful breath at

the window. Our faces

frame

the glass. And falling, falling.

Mouth sounds

steeped in milky

thoughts. Downward

with the purpose

of terminal

velocity. Find us a cliff

where storms lose

their way.

Feet splayed

at the

utter edge.

But today. But far from home. Where

vivid green, the sky hung in shreds.

Here the people I knew as friends, they

hide their eyes, tell me to fall into

the river and return to early nature as

an incautious spirit. My haunted

visions of flight wash away to mother’s

sea. Does God want me to put on my wedding

suit? Eat every bite of cake down to the

ivory plate? But not cake and not a wedding.

A cemetery fills my hand. I’ve gone

back in time to the birth of the world

and a tendon morning and promises

lost in midday circles. To drag my heels

along the circus boulevard. Curve

down into valley’s shade. Removed

from you and everyone else.

And or.