shadow of sputnik

I want to love you without the aid of satellites
To reach out and touch not someone, but you

Pictures at an exhibition in my bed are not, I think, the same
No matter how sharp your digital smile
How familiar the sound of your breath, the wagon hitch in your voice when you come

Unruffled, untouched, in the shadow of Sputnik, are we
The space race reduced to this line, these miles, between your pillow and mine

if i had a superpower

If I had a superpower, it’d be self-sabotage.

I prefer to think of it that way instead of “epic self-destructive device.”

The reach of this power? Knows no bounds.

Relationships with other humans? Bam.

Burgeoning life as an academic? Kazam!

Writing what I love simply for the joy? Oh, yeah. I’ve fucked that up, too.

I used to think that being conscious of a problem, of a default in one’s behavior, would ipso facto lead to its demise.

See something, say something, stop it.

But, ah, alas. It ain’t so.

No, I go right on Gojira-ing through my daily freaking life,

Taking one self-inflicted body blow after another

And yet still: these patterns? I can’t break.

Suffice it to say, I am a general fuck-up.

I’d like to stop thank you now please.

a total loss

The first time I said it, there was an earthquake.
Just a 5.2: nothing serious, you said.
But enough to shake the carport, to put your kids’ bikes in danger and
scratch up your wife’s truck.
Still. Made sense you didn’t hear me, then.

The second time I said it, your aunt died.
The older one whom everyone knew was getting close, but still.
Came as a shock.
You didn’t hear me because you were on your way to Toledo.
Your kids’ first plane ride.

The third time, there was a terrible storm
the kind you’re not supposed to have out there
and the power was out for three days
the contents of your fridge: a total loss.
Needless to say, impossible for you to hear me then
over the whine of the busted transformer two streets down
over your wife’s laughter across the candles and the rapidly melting ice cream.
Yes. Impossible.

The fourth time, your daughter broke her arm and
you spent all night in the emergency room
counting ghosts and singing Zeppelin to her, soft,
until she fell asleep.
Yes. Not possible.

And it was only then that I thought curse instead of gift,
Burden instead of joy.
Me, that is, to you.

And they’re predicting storms today
so I know it’s the right moment not to say:
I love you.