Tuesday, May 1, 2012


Somewhere between the cheesecake
And the devils on horseback
They revisit a topic best left alone
The evening begun with such promise —
fine wine, crisp linen, dimmer switch low
music soft and tasteful; kitchen 
smells scrumptious—
Rapidly deteriorates, spins with 
concentric determination
Down, down, down — to the dark place
Becoming all too familiar to them both

She feels if she stretches her arms out,
Her hands will feel  cold, damp
No, not damp —slimy —slimy, wet walls
And she knows the walls will be closing
in on them, on her
He, on the other hand, feels as if the ground
is disappearing beneath their feet
That the more they talk, the less real his world
is becoming
Until soon it and he, will become entirely weightless
He knows there will be no keeping him grounded
That his drifting away from her will have
the permanence of death

Still – try as they might to quell them,
bitter words, crisp as alum, fall from their lips
Spill like old blood on the empty china plates
Plinking like coins, each one louder,
uglier than the last
She feels her hands fly to her face
Touches the heat gathered there and
the salty tears leaking freely
Her voice is stayed and she stares
at him blankly, wondering again, again
How is it they have arrived at this place...

The silence gathers like snowdrifts,
catches his ear
He stops to listen, stares into her leaking eyes
They stretch their hands towards each other
Grasping for some remnant of their love,
Her lips tremble with the absurdity
Of the notion that they may try
This staying together thing  another time;
How can she consider the idea
For even a second, when they both come
From such vastly different places,
Remember such very different pasts
She tries to remind herself how badly
He rewrites her history
How embellishment is one thing but now,
Every recital  of her transgressions
Has her growing more evil, less well

Then, tonight – oh my God – tonight
She’d almost forgotten that they’d
actually opened
Old-new wounds, some things she’d believed
scarred over
Were apparently never fully slashed apart
in the first place
The fact of the fiction has her feeling surreal
She can't tell which way is up, north, down, east
Her discombobulation so great, she feels
physically unwell

How could her memory be this faulty?
Could she really be this far off the mark?
She feels demented – she knows she's
subject to sadness
And bouts of mania – but demented?
Does she also have to accept that?
Dementia seems such an
old person’s thing...besides
She couldn’t be wrong
about all of her history, could she?

(re-written 04.3.09)
rewritten again 12.05.01

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