A Poem, A Memory

A Poem, A Memory

I'd like to get past those pupils of yours,
(Constricting, dilating, and constricting again,)
and find myself
happily within
the small brick home
inside your head.

first I'd wipe my feet outside the cornea,
taking care not to upset the irises in their terracotta pots,
Pausing on the threshold
to notice a shade of blue
so slightly different from my own blue,
and then enter
through that circular door.

Once inside, I'd take off my coat
and make myself comfortable;
languidly perusing the paintings on the wall,
admiring the naturally finished hardwood floors
(they compliment the oak furniture so nicely, by the way).
and continuing on,
I'd look at the organized nick-naks
on the desk in the corner.

I'd have a snack from your fridge.
Just a little snack
to afford me satisfaction.
Wedge shaped slices of apples,
celery with peanut butter,
and miniature carrot sticks with ranch dipping sauce,
like the ones my mother used to make.

But finally,
when I’ve made myself at home,
I will be sure to take special note of your bookshelves.

There are a great many novels and experiences here.
Books stacked up neatly and dusted
but in no particular order.
Some books are new-looking,
barely creases in the spines,
but others are worn ragged with reading
and re-reading.
A few of them have our own names
authored on shiny-glossy covers,
While others like the travel guides
serve as tea coasters,
There’s also a norwegian children’s book by Anne Cath. Vestly
(mormor og de atte ungene pa sykkeltur i danmark)
which rests next to your bed.


Later, I’ll curl up on the couch
with one of your more dog-eared books in hand,
vicariously living the emotions and motives you lived,
a kind of conversation between us within a book.
I’ll read until I’ve drifted off to sleep,
gradually, painfully
coming back into consciousness
when I notice the puddle of drool upon my shoulder.

I could stay here
like this forever,
but it’s time to go so I’ll leave a little note or poem.
Something to tell you I was here,
and how much I appreciated it.
Something cute and heartfelt
full of memory.

On my way out I grab the trash and pull it to the curb,
not forgetting to constrict and lock those pupils behind me.
I leave the key in the hiding place
next to the garage,
and look back upon your face to remember it for later.

Your eyes are not the soul’s windows
which everybody talks about and have made cliche,
they’re doorways.
Ones which I hope will open for me again when the time is right,
a time I can find myself
at home in permanence.
Until then,
may this memory suffice to sustain us.