Sunday, August 23, 2015

Juste à temps




from Poems for Blok, by Marina Tsvetaeva 
Your name is a—bird in my hand,
a piece of ice on my tongue.
The lips’ quick opening.
Your name—four letters.
A ball caught in flight,
a silver bell in my mouth.
A stone thrown into a silent lake
is—the sound of your name.
The light click of hooves at night
—your name.
Your name at my temple
—sharp click of a cocked gun.
Your name—impossible—
kiss on my eyes,
the chill of closed eyelids.
Your name—a kiss of snow.
Blue gulp of icy spring water.
With your name—sleep deepens.

_____

I adored your eyes, your ears, your nose, your neck, your name; I'd repeat it like a litany, like a rosary, like a spell; I'd spell it out; and then it became merely a four-letter word, like poem, like love, like time, like past. It was past time for me to be your pastime, so I thought of other four-letter words:  rift, left, gone.   And I went.

Now your name's a cliche: Once upon a time, there was a boy...and it ends with And she escaped in the nick of time, from the Nick with whom she spent time, and she lived, not happily, but through it.

Noun: a strike-through.

Verb, to steal, purloin.

Noun, a small edit.

Verb, to make a little cut, or scar. .

Redacted.

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Friday, March 06, 2015

REMEMBERING YOU THROUGH LEONARD NIMOY


I miss the decades of conversation and coffee, in cafes and on couches, learning about cartoons and cartography, catasterism and Caravaggio. I miss writing while you sketched. I miss your grin when you'd read something you liked. I miss reading in bed with you, knowing that your book and my book usually ended on the floor, while we'd debate the merits of Bugs versus Daffy, Tom versus Jerry, The Lord of The Rings versus Narnia, Star Wars versus Star Trek, which boiled down to Solo versus Spock. 


I wonder what you'd say about my favorite spaceman, whose death made me cry a little bit. I once never cried. In fact, you always teased me that I was part Vulcan. I can do the eyebrow. I can do the finger-spread greeting. I even have a Vulcan death grip when there's something I want at a thrift store or an auction.


I used to joke how "Live long and prosper" was a better end to the wedding vows than "till death do us part. I didn't realize there was a comma, because for the last 4 years, 7 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, it's been live, long, and prosper. 


I'm still living. I'm still missing you. And I know I'm richer for having known you.





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