About Tacos

Nov. 2nd, 2006 09:35 pm
blueimber: (Default)
last night
i sailed softly down to where i had left my things
from the night before
and in the last of the Autumn warmth
went over with these weathered hands
the simple ritual
of what it means
to be a person
working with another.
picking tomatoes out at the supermarket
wondering over cheese products
selecting sauces and ingredients
as if the shelves could hold for us what
we have been looking for.
((in my mind and i see things and i feel
then, pointing out a childhood haunt
i smile
that would have been the spot i would have selected
armed then with having gathered
the bones of a good meal
walk the gentle flight towards the kitchen
thinking of the spices
of the way the light hits the stairs
of being in this quiet space
of working together to create
a single meal.
the onion falls under the knife first
and i show him
onions and peppers and utensils and tomatoes
i show him
i show him
he asks
how large for the cheese
running my fingers over the mouths of the shredder
'this one, this one should be just fine'
i sauté the ground meat
fingering spices in the cabinet
searching for still what on shelves i have not found
my memory inadvertently remembering
jar shape shadows and
does every spice cabinet smell the same?
i pluck some treasure up out of little tins and glass jars and
we are cooking
it is easy
it is knives and throw it in the pan
it is turn the heat up and let it cook
quickly quickly
these raw things turn into something whole
he turns the beans out into a small pot
and i begin to toast the shells
while switching the meat off and the tortillas on
swirling the butter over the flat pan
that we can never escape the memories that we make of things
but that there is always the chance
to save anything
by remaking it in another image
i flip the tortillas out onto a plate and he spoons
and spreads
what he's got
wrapping it then
around a shell
and i keep them warm as the oven cools off
from having finished its toast—
we're then ready
and begin to fill them with the delicate little morsels
that sit haphazardly in darling little bowls
spread out over a table too small for this
but just big enough to manage to hold
my heart is happy
i am so proud of this little meal
everything is perfect
and we alight upon the futon
and our show begins
and like
being alive
we eat together
drink together
and share the last few bites—
when did this become so close?
how will i let it go
when the course is run and
things change?
in the meantime
i let the thought pass out of me
to do its damage elsewhere;
i am not worried about.
instead i focus on
the smell of his skin
the feeling of my nose pressed to the top of his head
the way my lips kiss perfectly the shape of his eyebrows
the taste of his wrists and fingertips
the shiver when i move closer to his neck
my pulse when he moves closer to mine
all of those things not talked about
not said
all of those little things
which indicate the intimate nature
of the kind of peace
within the same company.
what defines this?
what would this be called?
labels fail to properly signify anything
but the calm i feel when laying my head against his chest
that my tension melts at the feeling of the palm of his hand
against my stomach as we lay together
mean more than any word could ever put to it.
and perhaps that is why i find i stay so silent—
because the awe has me
the moment has me and
to say anything would
dispel it—
and no
no i
want this to last
some little time of it longer
like one more kiss before leaving
just one more
don't let me go
say to me
blueimber: (Default)
last night and i was listless
in the dark of my room under the light of one lamp
playing around with my xacto
and it fell
tumbled from my fingers
tip first
into the soft skin of my
upper thigh--

a little drop like
liquid ruby
rose to the surface and threatened
to spill over itself
and cry
from the wound
when i removed the knife

i sat there
a little enthralled
hoping that there would be more blood
but it was just a pinhead
the devil danced upon it
asking me asking me
'Emily, what have you wrought?'

heartache sirs
since i sliced my life open
like some ripe fruit
those years ago in proclamation
thinking i was worthy of love
letting the life
drain away from me
until now you come upon me
and find only
how empty
i really am.

i have succeeded in giving away
about everything
i am
no one
i am nothing
i am

despite feeling beautiful
despite all of the things i have going
i come back to
the same wish

the same sentiment

let me die

oh God
please just
let me die
let it be enough that i have tried so hard
let it be enough that i have struggled so much
let it be enough
have i not fit the bill?
have i not paid my due?
have i not followed what best i thought
true things?

why do i ceaselessly want to stop
to lay down and not ever rise again?

and my life is full sometimes of such wonderful things
such wonderful--

and i know i am not done here
that i have not done enough here
that i have not lived at all

yet i am so tired
i want to be happy
so much--

i have been happy
i have had glorious moments of perfect orbit
when the ellipse shimmies and dives around
everything on their axes
everything singing

i want to hear the song again
i want to lull into the melody

but the thing is i want
i want too much
i want too much i take too much
i am too available
i am too easy
i'm not--

i have no personality.
i am boring
i am like talking to a wall
nothing interesting to say

even in the quiet hours
when and even just one person actually stops and listens to me
i am too far removed to be understood

revel in the silence
how can you tell someone
that you don't want to talk
you simply want to share space
share time


like the wheels on a train turn
trains which run far north
into the colder mountains
up to the clear waters of the hudson
under the banner of autumn and night
at haunted railway stations
indulging in
the freedom of being
and so much else---

i want
to listen to music together
laying on a bed
with nothing else to do
and just listen to the music in the night
watch the stars
and not talk
not have to talk
not have to say anything
just to be
to enjoy the beauty of it---
to understand

i want to be understood
i want to be beautiful in these ways
i want someone to miss me when i am not there
i want the lighthearted easiness that i bring
to be desired and sought
i want to be a comfort and a joy

i don't want to be
old hat

i want too much
i want more than those who i want it from are willing to give

i want to be in the presence of a man
and have him be proud
that –
that it is upon his arm i have alighted
i am not some
desperate wifey
searching upon which ankle to clamp my chain
not that
i am yet
a beautiful nightingale
who is here for one moment
singing her song with the flute of her throat
and gone the next
flying on towards what scents float on the wind
bringing me away—

if i stop
if i sing
please only listen
please listen
and hold me when i am here
you don't know when i will be gone.

it is not so terrible to own me for some small time
it is not so terrible to be thought of as one touched
by my hand

"sore must be the storm
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm"

i choose so careful onto whom i place this affection
this burden it seems

i do not mean to overload
i just
when i think i am wanted
i give so much-
i give so much---

and lately
lately i have felt so small.
so insignificant
so unworthy of being held

let go of.

i landed and was shooed away.
there is not one tree, not one shoulder
one arm
i belong upon

"asking me
'she's so free,
how can you catch the sparrow?'"

see it?
see it see it see?


lay my head down softly.

i just
i wish i knew
i wish i knew where to go
what to do.

i want to be happy
and not so sad
but it's been years

off again—
gotta fly away again----

September 2017

171819 20212223


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 20th, 2017 08:09 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios