Addendum: This Is How You Lose Her

& another thing…

J. & I:

Making out like teenagers on his father’s couch, the tv a dim glow in the background, the cat, bored & staring from the safety of the corner; now quick, now slow, our desire’s chatty ebb & flow– he tells me I look good in this light, I claw at his back, implore him to kiss my neck, that spot where it meets my shoulder, I am, I have always been, a sucker. For boys & all their dirty tricks. One gentle moment, one strong hand gone soft in my hair’s fine fall, & You Can Count Me In:

Every once in a while, when I’m jogging, I’ll really hear a song, the way Frederica Potter, teaching The Great Gatsby, a book she’s long admired, for the first time, has a sudden moment of recognition, as she truly experiences the way Fitzgerald sewed language into a great, dreamy, American patchwork, as though she’s doing the sewing alongside him, & stops her lecture cold, to say to her class, “Listen, look, I’ve just seen for the first time how good this passage really is,” because she’s just walked into that passage as though it’s a roomy house, because, when everything aligns as it should, it is, & the language is the thing itself, & you, the teacher, can take it off its dusty shelf & re-animate it, & crack the door to that house for another:

Just as, the wind finally at my back, Corin Tucker’s voice begins to speak as though she wrote this song just for me, alone, gaining speed– & when the body finally starts to let go,/let it all go at once/not piece by piece/but like a whole bucket of stars,/dumped into the universe… & it’s as though my body is that house, & I’ve reentered it, or entered it fully, or the music has entered it, fully, the music, the words, inform me, shed light in my dark house, or light it from within, & there it is: the body finally starts to let go, all at once: my house suddenly contained: A Whole Bucket Of Stars:

& who holds the container? Who can let me go, all at once? Skin to hot skin, J. tells me, Everyone is a certain type, aren’t they? 

& what am I?

Nah, no way, I’m not gonna tell you that…

& does that inform the way you touch me, the way you stroke my hair, my legs, the way you knead my shoulders, my back? You tell me, It’s like your back talks to me, but it’s not language; I can’t really– that’s how I think about everything, I mean… I fall into the rabbit hole, I’m not really that smart, just– I can like; it’s like my brain can suddenly inhabit the thing I’m trying to understand, just for a moment, & then I know what to do…

& is my body then his song, his book, his language, a house he can illuminate? & is my body somehow special? Can he manage this with everyone? Can he let me go? Can I let myself? Oh, these differences, these lines drawn in the sand: How I Cling To Them, even as my body begs to differ, I refuse its dark command: Let It All Go At Once…

As Ursula Brangwen wondered, “Why drag in the stars,” Lawrence disallowing the question mark, the words a declaration of separation, of refusal, the words laminating her from her lover; as I very nearly break the spell of J.’s hand in my hair to assert my own, my intelligence, which listens not to muscles & bones, but to words: I know my own type, I know what you think I am, I very nearly say: The Good Girl Gone Bad: The Good Girl Longing To Be Bad: To let it all go, to allow you that power over me– my body is a house you enter: I am a space & you are still a body, I am a bucket of stars, container & contained, & you are the man that can toss me into the universe; at least that’s what you think…

& writing this, I chide myself for my domestic analogies, & the bacon grease sits on the stove, & my eyes burn from a lack of sleep, & my son goes, “Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, I’ll pick you up!” his inverted way of saying, Pay Attention To Me. Now. & once my body was his house, dark until he left it, until he took with him our fused & central light…


This entry was published on October 13, 2012 at 2:08 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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