25 November 2013
There are poems after poems after poems that have saved me. I think I will probably always need a little bit of saving, and sometimes that’s frightening, and uncomfortable. Imagine it like this: I am standing over the edge, but with my back to the abyss. I close my eyes, place my arms over my chest as if an embrace. Then I fall, willingly, foolishly, not knowing if there are hands outstretched to catch me.
Sometimes I die on the way. Sometimes I wake up. And sometimes–a poem saves my life. Like this one:
You are riding the bus again
burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80,
the sole passenger
with an overhead light on.
And I am with you.
I’m the interminable fields you can’t see,
the little lights off in the distance
(in one of those rooms we are
living) and I am the rain
and the others all
around you, and the loneliness you love,
and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,
and the catastrophic dawn,
the nicotine crawling on your skin—
and when you begin
to cough I won’t cover my face,
and if you vomit this time I will hold you:
everything’s going to be fine
I will whisper.
It won’t always be like this.
I am going to buy you a sandwich.