To be a writer
Means to have yet another excuse for bad behavior.
It means that when I sit next to you and I am wrestling the
smoke from your cigarette like a bear I want to believe
we'll end up on the floor in gritty film rolls and beer cans
and start to choke.
Because I remember how the whiskey made her eyes
shine and her her hair a swimming pool. When she took
me aside and said
"You two are going to destroy each other," with a little
Parisian smile. Expecting one day to read great mythology
that we made with bread knives we stuck in each other's
So one day I felt like being more clever than
romantic and I caught you by the shoulder
And I said,
"You know, we're going to destroy each other."
You didn't laugh but I saw you wanted to because
your mouth was like a tepid hurricane and your hands
were reaching out the window to throw a tree at me.
And you said,
"No, darling, I don't have time for that."
It was spring and all that was in your hands
was rabbit water and flowers.
You know what it means.
It means I will tell you my dog was a Russian cosmonaut.
If I fuck someone they become my new editor. I get jealous
when a husband kills some other wife's seven children.
It means that sometimes I remember what you
once said to me.
It's quiet here at the edge of the room. I'm
learning we're not all meant for tragedy, at least
not all at once.
I want to sit here working when the next luckless
paramour busts down my door
And push her away.