Is Pandora's box --
The ever-dreaded proverbial
Can of worms:
After 3 years apart, we've both become
Sacks of sludge.
(Memories like unwanted relatives show up with the
Treacherous seductress called "summer"
Of us, life-making and love-making on these tattered
Remember when we were tan and sleek?
Shiny with sweat and skinny from exertion?
Remember when our spit-houses were saunas of sulfuric acid?
But now, his diet
Pasta, pasta, and more pasta (basta)
And mine buttered onions, preserved meat, and eggs.
I am eternally sad as I home from window to window
With this sterility that means more than winter
And you, too.
Like fluffy, fat grandparents we shroud ourselves in shame,
Swaddled and shawled
To the point of
More like digging my mine in silence
Until cavalry comes and I'm saved.
More like the wet gunk around my eyes
More like the nude photos I sent that didn't receive a response
(An exquisite hurt -- a constant embarrassed confusion)
Or poems I wrote that no one wanted to see.
More like my parents, in the mean young of youth,
Conspiring against me (I was just a child).
More like my greasy hair making an intolerably itchy mat of flakes and mistakes
On my head.
If I could,
I'd unhinge the parts of this body
That have turned into painful ash
And write them into a book, throwing
It at the birds outside that
Are so loud at six in the morning.