Feb 17, 2012
Nothing
could have prepared me for this life
in which all hinges on me,
where it’s only me and my past now left
to reassure the world. The trouble is
they forget me fast and start counting
on krill, or thinking they understand
turbulence; so I have to make regular
appearances on the borders
of disasters, dropping through some backdoors
in space whenever I feel the gravity
of their need. Apples for the teacher
are all I get for it, for holding the railway
train on the high viaduct by a single joint
of my little finger, blowing hard
at the last moment to keep the water upright
in the shape of a shattered dam, for stopping
a model of the earth based on real chaos from
breaking through. I feel spelled all wrong,
stuck in the east wind
with my face caught in an expression
which would mean world financial crisis
if the president wore it. Give me dinner,
a lovely long dinner in dim light, with someone,
someone who will propose something rude
so it doesn’t sound rude — just delicious —
nothing personal, anxious or brutal about it
though it might seem all of those things
to others when it’s not night, over their ordinary
sandwiches: wholemeal, mustard
and fragile morsels. My head aches; I want
that woman and enough passion to blast away
any hope of understanding what’s happening
to me. And I want us to eat scallops,
and I want to lick the juice from her chin
as though I could save the world that way,
and I won’t even ask what passion is for
in which all hinges on me,
where it’s only me and my past now left
to reassure the world. The trouble is
they forget me fast and start counting
on krill, or thinking they understand
turbulence; so I have to make regular
appearances on the borders
of disasters, dropping through some backdoors
in space whenever I feel the gravity
of their need. Apples for the teacher
are all I get for it, for holding the railway
train on the high viaduct by a single joint
of my little finger, blowing hard
at the last moment to keep the water upright
in the shape of a shattered dam, for stopping
a model of the earth based on real chaos from
breaking through. I feel spelled all wrong,
stuck in the east wind
with my face caught in an expression
which would mean world financial crisis
if the president wore it. Give me dinner,
a lovely long dinner in dim light, with someone,
someone who will propose something rude
so it doesn’t sound rude — just delicious —
nothing personal, anxious or brutal about it
though it might seem all of those things
to others when it’s not night, over their ordinary
sandwiches: wholemeal, mustard
and fragile morsels. My head aches; I want
that woman and enough passion to blast away
any hope of understanding what’s happening
to me. And I want us to eat scallops,
and I want to lick the juice from her chin
as though I could save the world that way,
and I won’t even ask what passion is for
