|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|The Difficulty of Speaking a Matter of Remembering
I was no more than vodka and sleep,
it was March and still winter.
You, still a thing
but no longer skin.
No longer air in lung.
No longer brachiated and colored red,
the length of a continent,
the shape of a flat clover, a field soaked pollen.
I used to chew your dermis, layering and oiled.
It is through some heroics in coastal Mexico
you became a line half-formed and running
toward water, a sheet white and vanishing.
I once asked you:
What does it mean
to be someone,
an unknown stretch,
a span reaching toward a thing?
Did we ever touch one another in the tall grass?
Was it my hand or yours that bled in deep puddles?
Could I have been the bullet domed and wandering?
Could I have been your crushed rib and heart chugging toward cement?
You returned an empty room, a contained thing.
You returned more beautiful than a dressed kill.
You said the world is disappointing.
I said the world is a changeling.
I want to be the tree you fell from at 13.
Was it a honey locust?
A bald cypress?
I want to be your cleanly broken radius.
I want to be your aorta draining the Yucatán.
I want to be compressing, the ghost beside the body.
About Andrew Ruzkowski