You Are the Penultimate Love of My Life -REBECCA HAZELTON
February 28, 2014, 9:10 pm
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I want to spend a lot but not all of my years with you.
We’ll talk about kids
                              but make plans to travel.
I will remember your eyes
                              as green when they were gray.
Our dogs will be named For Now and Mostly.
               Sex will be good but next door’s will sound better.


There will be small things.
I will pick up your damp towel from the bed,
                                                            and then I won’t.
I won’t be as hot as I was
                              when I wasn’t yours
and your hairline now so
When we pull up alongside a cattle car
                              and hear the frightened lows,
                              I will silently judge you
                              for not immediately renouncing meat.
You will bring me wine
                              and notice how much I drink.


                                              The garden you plant and I plant
                              is tunneled through by voles,
                                                             the vowels
                                                             we speak aren’t vows,
               but there’s something
                              holding me here, for now,
               like your eyes, which I suppose
                                                             are brown, after all.

February 28, 2014, 6:32 pm
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Again this morning my eyes woke up too close
to your eyes,

their almost green orbs
too heavy-lidded to really look back.

To wake up next to you
is ordinary. I do not even need to look at you

to see you.
But I do look. So when you come to me

in your opulent sadness, I see
you do not want me

to unbutton you
so I cannot do the one thing

I can do.
Now it is almost one a.m. I am still at my desk

and you are upstairs at your desk a staircase
away from me. Already it is years

of you a staircase
away from me. To be near you

and not near you
is ordinary.

are ordinary.

Still, how many afternoons have I spent
peeling blue paint from

our porch steps, peering above
hedgerows, the few parked cars for the first

glimpse of you. How many hours under
the overgrown, pink Camillas, thinking

the color was wrong for you, thinking
you’d appear

after my next

Soon you’ll come down the stairs
to tell me something. And I’ll say,

okay. Okay. I’ll say it
like that, say it just like

that, I’ll go on being
your never-enough.

It’s not the best in you
I long for. It’s when you’re noteless,

numb at the ends of my fingers, all is
all. I say it is.

Learning to Mourn -Robert Winner
February 26, 2014, 9:05 pm
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I’m an inexperienced mourner
I don’t even know how to begin
to cry out like that old man
wailing in the next hospital room—
oi vay, oi vay—his two sounds
beating against the wall.

He makes me squirm
but I get his message better than my own.
How can I free myself like him?
How can I know my place as he does,
know how little I am?
How can I mourn, the cheep of a trapped bird
crying out violent sorrow?

Old man, teach me.
Help me reach the bowels of my cry
and bring it up, coarse, rasping.
Teach me to be disgusting.
Help me to exile myself from all
the populations of eyes and ears.
Teach me to live in that country
where no one else is, where I can
bash to pieces my good breeding,
my priests and pillars
—no illusions, the self wiped out,
unable to see or hear or understand.

Old man—lying in your shit—
you’ve let the angel of death from your mouth.
One minute of your unforgiving protest
is like true song: reckless, fatal singing,
song that is not victorious, not even consoling,
merely a sound you have to make.

February 19, 2014, 6:52 pm
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“i love HEARING you smile”

lose yourself
February 17, 2014, 11:39 am
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The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.
-Mahatma Gandhi

February 11, 2014, 7:57 pm
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I don’t buy it
, says

the scientist.

Replies the frail

and faithful heart,

it’s not for sale.

February 7, 2014, 11:02 pm
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When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on. -Franklin D. Roosevelt