Snow And Dirty Rain by Richard Siken
Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close
to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward meÂ
with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending
to sleep, while Iâm in the other room. Imagine
my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots
in the slatted light.
Iâm thinking My plant, his chair,
the ashtray that we bought together. Iâm thinking This is where
we live. When we were little we made houses out ofÂ
cardboard boxes. We can do anything. Itâs not because
our hearts are large, theyâre not, itâs what we
struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring
your friends. Itâs a potluck, Iâm making pork chops, Iâm making
those long noodles you love so much. My dragonfly,
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing
for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw,
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me
tight, itâs getting cold.Â
We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the heroâs shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it. The lawn drowned, the sky on fire,
the gold light falling backward through the glass
of every room. Iâll give you my heart to make a placeÂ
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars
for you? That I would take you there? The splash
of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? Weâve read
the back of the book, we know whatâs going to happen.
The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left
broken in the brown dirt. And thenâs itâs gone.
Makes you sad. All your friends are gone. Goodbye
Goodbye. No more tears. I would like to meet you all
in Heaven. But thereâs a litany of dreams that happens
somewhere in the middle. Moonlight spilling
on the bathroom floor. A page of the book where we
transcend the story of our lives, past the taco stands
and record stores. Moonlight making crosses
on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
We have been very brave, we have wanted to know
the worst, wanted the curtain to be lifted from our eyes.
This dream going on with all of us in it. Penciling in
the bighearted slob. Penciling in his outstretched arms.
Our father who art in Heaven. Our father who art buried
in the yard. Someone is digging your grave right now.
Someone is drawing a bath to wash you clean, he said,
so think of the wind, so happy, so warm. Itâs a fairy tale,
the story underneath the story, sliding down the polishedÂ
halls, lightning here and gone. We make these
ridiculous idols so we can pray to whatâs behind them,
but what happens after we get up the ladder?
Do we simply stare at whatâs horrible and forgive it?
Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are
the monsters we put in the box to test our strength
against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and hereâs
the desire to put it inside us, and then the question
behind every question:Â What happens next?
The way you slam your body into mine reminds me
Iâm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling,
and theyâre only a few steps behind you, finding
the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we werenâtÂ
stitched up quite right, the place they could almost
slip right through if the skin wasnât trying toÂ
keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side
of the theater where the curtain keeps rising.
I crawled out the window and ran into the woods.
I had to make up all the words myself. The way
they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed
through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled
around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made
this place for you. A place for you to love me.Â
If this isnât a kingdom then I donât know what is.
So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields?
Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets?
I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters
kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunterâs heart,
the hunterâs mouth, the trees and the trees and the
space between the trees, swimming in gold. The words
frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce
leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere.Â
I was away, I donât know where, lying on the floor,
pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you
but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have
swallowed him up, they said. Itâs beautiful. It really is.
I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room
where everyone finally gets what they want.Â
You said Tell me about your books, your visions made
of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is
the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you
there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar
cubeâŠÂ We were in the gold room where everyoneÂ
finally gets what they want, so I said What do you
want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me. Here I am
leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome
burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,
my silent night, just mash your lips against me.Â
We are all going forward. None of us are going back.
theartofmadeline
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
areudirty
germansingergirl
gummygunk
