karen says

karen says,

"you know what i think
is sad?

people eating alone. or
people eating in cars.

i can't watch them--
they're always looking around
to see if anyone's watching them
eat alone.

it's too sad.
i have to turn away."

i laugh with her
as she demonstrates
someone taking mincing bites
(she's biting a videotape,
but we imagine
it's a slice of pizza)
and looking like the
world's most dejected squirrel.

the laughter dies down
and i tell her
i eat alone all the time--

as long as i have something
to read.

"oh, well,

that's different,"
she replies.






---




early

because my hair is flimsy
i forgot what six in the morning
tasted like
i forgot that the sidewalks are fucking
until the first footfall on their cement thighs
this strange line-shaped bruise
on the inside of my right arm tells me
there are things harder than
sleeping without moonlight
falling without hitting and
just because i thought i could
take my tongue out and put it
inside your chest
doesn't mean i'm coming apart
it just means i'm leaving






---




your last breath was warm

your last breath was warm
on the inside of my hands
i could have lifted it to my face
and tasted the transformation
but it would have been a kind of hiding

you'd told me to not cry
that tears were not the last picture
you wanted in your head
before whatever happened
happened

so bereft of bereftness
i could only sit by you and lean forward
your eyes would open and close
like they were on overstretched rubberbands
open and close slowly
open slowly and then close with the
liquid softness of leaving

your last breath was warm
and knowing your eyes were soft
i reached out and caught the air
with my palm

you traced the veins in my hands
long after whatever had happened
happened





Meredyth Smith
© 1996

Mere in NYC, National Poetry Month, April 1996.

Back to Zero City Poetry Page.