A flimsy crutch to hold the light
Day’s back strained against the night
We stroll in sunset’s consumptive rattle.
Day’s back strained against the night
We stroll in sunset’s consumptive rattle.
He scuttles me
through muffled streets
Our tedious
retreats
Drain hours
like the sour aftertaste of milky tea
His company, the dregs of winter between my teeth
Until some baleful fit guides his stupor
To lift a stammering hand to my back
And shuffle closer through the sawdust and ash
To troll me through still more stale roads
And cocoon me in dusk’s colic glow
All too soon his fumbling gaze
Tugs the hemline of my ease
His company, the dregs of winter between my teeth
Until some baleful fit guides his stupor
To lift a stammering hand to my back
And shuffle closer through the sawdust and ash
To troll me through still more stale roads
And cocoon me in dusk’s colic glow
All too soon his fumbling gaze
Tugs the hemline of my ease
The humid
morning pressed against the evening rain
Night’s fresh
breath crushed against the morning’s rays
Thick air
wheezed upon the doors of the balcony
Squeezed under
the door cracks into the foyer
Let the dawn
cough its heat onto the still damp streets
Breathe its
stale breath, in sickly heaves
Until the sharp
teeth of evening rain
Bite back the
day’s hacking heat
And again and
once again
The dawn will
press its breath into the coiled streets
Will crush its
heat against the evening’s sleet
And then again
and once again
I will wipe the
makeup from my dripping face
I will pull on
and then pull off my lace
Come home from
work and pull off my heels
And sink into
the clotted air of home
And him again,
and me again
Another again
like a hundred evenings
Again
misunderstood empty meanings
Before sleep’s
cold relief
Yet in the morning his
fumbling gaze
Tugs the hemline of my ease
Tugs the hemline of my ease
And yes again,
and yet again
I plan to leave
and plan to leave
But again I turn
back and take my keys
My dreams too
heavy when the day begins to wheeze
(And they will
whisper, how my eyes are growing dim!)
My
disappointment bulges in rolls around my chin
My flesh bloated
and swollen as my hope grows ever thin
(And they will
whisper, oh she used to be so slim!)
And yet I plan
To stir the
stale air
One cold morning
is enough
For a breeze or
then a gale to blow away our worn affair
But I have met
this man already, met them all
Have gone for
dinner, drinks, the honeymoon
I have drifted
through my life on phony swoons
I know his shows
blaring through the flimsy walls
Drowning the
lament of my heart torn and hewn
So how should we conclude?
But I have been
alone already, been scalded raw—
I have blundered
naked through their gaze
Been wrapped
tightly, squeezed and plastered with a grin
When I am hung
out for sale, bought and gnawed
How will I set my chin
To scare the
jackals off my last scraps, braised, ablaze?
So
why should we conclude?
But I have cast
his heart already, cracked and flawed,
A heart I forged
with hurt’s bitter flare
(But in a
desperate moment still a useful ware!)
Was it the
inferno in my own chest
That fired hard
our loneliness?
My heart, burned
and frozen, freezer-burned and thawed
So how should this conclude?
And how should I forgive?
* * * * * * *
I could confess,
I have stumbled out in the alleys of night’s storm
Let the rain
knot my hair as it tumbles from the eaves
Washing me in the
rooftop’s grime, the thick sediment of the city
I could have
waited for one of day’s glittering puddles
And fluttered
like a magpie to it’s rippling edge
* * * * * * *
And the evening,
the night, turn so sleeplessly!
Churned by
restless feet,
Raw… exhausted…
indiscrete,
Spread across
our bed, heavy with humidity.
Will I, after
another sleepless night,
Have the nerve
to start our final fight?
But though I
have grown tough and bitter, tough and resolved,
Though I have
convinced myself I want to see your head brought in upon a platter,
I am not
Herodias—but a wife of Sodom and Gomorra,
I will resign my
freedom to my nostalgia,
And I will
sacrifice my future for some long forgotten pleasure,
And will stand
frozen, crystallized like salt.
And would it
have made any difference, any difference at all,
After wiping the
sleep from my bleary eyes,
After hiding in
the bathroom again to cry,
Would things
have worked out any better,
If I had lied
and said it didn’t matter,
If I had
swallowed my longing and said nothing at all,
If I had
ingested this thought and let it fester,
Instead of
saying: “I am Lot’s wife, frozen stiff,
Turned away from
you, turned away from it all”—
If I had not
turned to you and spit,
With venom: “You never listen to me
at all;
You never listen at all.”
And would it
have made any difference, any difference at all,
Would things
have worked out any better,
After the
sleepless nights and muffled crying in the bathroom
After the
biblical metaphors and making up and twisted sheets
After these
conversations and our little deceits
You still never
listen to anything I say!
But my nerves
dissolved when your shattered face turns grey
Would things
have worked out any better,
If I had rubbed
my eyes, smiled, and said nothing at all,
Instead of
welling up with venom and spitting:
“You never listen at all,
You never listen to me at all.”
* * * * * * *
I am the
Chamberlain’s mild daughter, but I amuse the prince
I sway to his
plot, happy to deliver his turns and twists
Slight and
sweet, there to be spurned or kissed
Delirious,
hysterical under crisis
My flowers
strewn carelessly yet still apologetic
My frantic
dance, foolish if not frenetic
At times,
indeed, they think me pathetic—
And yet, I could
drown their distaste.
I am alone… and
still alone…
I burry my
desire in the marrow of my bones.
How to smooth my
wrinkles out? Do I dare face the day’s sickly heat?
I wait for
night’s forgiving darkness and then stroll along the streets.
I have heard the
ravens calling, each to each.
I do not think
they will call to me.
I watch them
preening their black feathers in the treetops
Then spreading
their wings to catch the night’s breeze
When the wind’s
rough breath begins to wheeze.
We have floated
on the currents of evening’s air
With raven’s
iridescent feathers floating on the squall
Till dawn
soothes the night’s wind, and we fall.
Helen Hajnoczky's work has appeared most recently in the magazines Rampike Vol.23 No.2, filling Station issue 59, Poetry is Dead issue 10, and online in Lemon Hound and Jacket2 as well as in the anthologies Why Poetry Sucks (Insomniac Press, 2014) and Ground Rules: best of the second decade of above/ground press 2003-2013 (Chaudiere Books, 2013). Her most recent chapbooks are Cover Letter from No Press and The Double Bind Dictionary from above/ground press. Helen's book Poets and Killers: A Life in Advertising is available from Invisible Publishing. She blogs http://ateacozyisasometimes.blogspot.ca/ and tweets @helenhajnoczky.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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