A Gulp of Air and a Shot of Whiskey...
I frequently think about the way objects soak up meaning--sometimes i want to lock away all of my possessions so nothing can ever destroy my encrypted memory books; sometimes i want to hold a bonfire so I'll never have to remember again.
My clothes.
that outfit I wore when I was 6 years old; it was lavender with pinstripes, matching top and pants and his hands were all over me mostly where they shouldn't have been and i just wanted a hug. that outfit was hanging there in my closet, threatening to tell my secret and my mom wanted me to wear it to church, but i never wanted to wear that outfit again.
My table.
my kitchen table is small and intimate and dark and intricate. it captured our conversations in its woodgrains and remembers the times we drank red wine and spoke about time and meaning and laughter spilled down our shirtfronts--the stain is in the corner--and we both leaned our elbows in on that strong table so that we could better see one another's eyes and i sit at that table now and finger its grains, remembering you.
My bed.
i've had my bed since i was three years old. it has four posters and is only a full-sized bed but looked so enormous when i was small--i had to have stairs to climb up into it. and it reminds me that i was important and that things are important and your house should look nice so that when old people come to visit they understand that you are doing better than them. it reminds me that i never jumped on it but got away with so much underneath it our breath quick and nervous, discovering. i hid crayons in its secret cavities, the yellow wax is still there but no one knows where to look unless i tell them.
My clothes.
that outfit I wore when I was 6 years old; it was lavender with pinstripes, matching top and pants and his hands were all over me mostly where they shouldn't have been and i just wanted a hug. that outfit was hanging there in my closet, threatening to tell my secret and my mom wanted me to wear it to church, but i never wanted to wear that outfit again.
My table.
my kitchen table is small and intimate and dark and intricate. it captured our conversations in its woodgrains and remembers the times we drank red wine and spoke about time and meaning and laughter spilled down our shirtfronts--the stain is in the corner--and we both leaned our elbows in on that strong table so that we could better see one another's eyes and i sit at that table now and finger its grains, remembering you.
My bed.
i've had my bed since i was three years old. it has four posters and is only a full-sized bed but looked so enormous when i was small--i had to have stairs to climb up into it. and it reminds me that i was important and that things are important and your house should look nice so that when old people come to visit they understand that you are doing better than them. it reminds me that i never jumped on it but got away with so much underneath it our breath quick and nervous, discovering. i hid crayons in its secret cavities, the yellow wax is still there but no one knows where to look unless i tell them.
Labels: Poetry
posted by slickaphonic at 1:53 AM
3 Comments:
of course, you know, I admire this. it is beautiful and brave.
thanks, ttractor. that means an awful lot coming from you--you know i think the same of your stories.
I stumbled upon your blog completely by accident. I hit the next blog button on the nav-bar.
But I was glad I did. Rarely do you find anything that is so well written and interesting. If I had more time I would probably read all your posts in one sitting.
Considering the number of useless blogs (mine included) on the web, it was a real treat reading your blog.
I look forward to my next visit and your next story.
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