And then there was the time I saw my death
One day the postcards started coming.
The Johnsons added a new room onto the house
When the saucers of milk started appearing
Finally one afternoon his taxi pulled up.
Evening pulls up in a Cadillac
I walk into the bedroom and you
When the suddenly cold air lies still
I want you there when I have to
Then think of walking by the piers as sundown
approaching on the sidewalk.
The pavement seemed to flow from its body like
the light from a burned-out bulb.
Its face was an empty chair in a back room
and somehow I knew I would sit there
breathing in the cheap cigars of its eyes.
It was passing out leaflets, passing out buttons.
It was trying to kiss the babies.
The air around it was turning to tears and
ten-dollar bills with my name on them.
And yes, all the curtains were parting and the
fire hydrants were stepping out for the last time.
Never had the garbage lining the curbs looked
more beautiful. The sounds of the cars
turned to applause.
In desperation, I crossed to the other side
of the street. It didn't seem to notice me and
continued on its way, scratching dogs on the head.
I looked around me, still trembling.
The faces bobbed in the crowds as calmly as ever,
clutching their ghosts in their eyes like lottery tickets.
THE CHILDLESS COUPLE LEARNS ABOUT SUMMER
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson knew then that no dream was safe.
He was always such an unassuming boy, never one
to take himself literally. He would carry
covered baskets along the trails of their imaginations,
always something to make them feel wanted.
But now he wrote that he'd be arriving in a few months.
to keep just the way he'd left it.
The postcards had mentioned how he often
thought of warm breezes in the wallpaper trees
around his bed, so they had the room wallpapered.
He said it was always winter in the imagination.
As they made the preparations, Mr. Johnson would
catch his wife eyeing him nervously, and he too
wondered what the world would next fill its pockets with.
In the mornings, now, they would count
all the silverware of their sleep.
around the house, they sensed that something else
would soon come in out of the cold. Sometimes
they even thought they could make out
paw prints on the clean floors of their conversations.
They talked of roses and weekends at the beach house,
but chilly air leaked in between the lines.
Their thoughts began to leave articles of clothing
on the carpet, magazines open on the chairs.
Mrs. Johnson would say nothing as
she picked the black lace panties up off the sofa,
but the worry showed in her face.
The day of his arrival approached.
By now, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were afraid
to sleep at night, fearing that
waking up might not make a difference.
They would stroll through their garden until
the early hours of the morning, taking comfort
in the resolutely June dirt underfoot,
yet each step dropped as if from a torn seed packet.
When he rang the bell, no one answered.
He walked into the house, with its strangely
solid silence, and called,
"Mom . . . Dad . . ."
How odd, he thought, as he unpacked
their last secrets from his bags.
Had he just imagined them?
FROM THE SHADOWS
then walks up my steps. It means business.
I lower the blinds and a name's left
unfinished on frightened lips.
Lights go on. A siren's crying far off.
The neighbor comes home and fumbles with his key,
doesn't notice what's pushing
its fingers between the bricks.
His wife opens the door. "Get in here, you damn drunk."
are lying there naked. Angry voices move from
the wall into our room. "I love you!
I love you!" he screams.
Desire reclines slowly across your lips,
throwing its head back. Around the weak light
flow the lines of your body.
There's the sound of glass breaking.
You watch me let my clothes fall to the floor.
Behind you the black sky swings in the
wind as it hangs from the window.
I feel your body closing around me.
Our tongues press together and lock us in.
on our skin, we pull the sheet over us.
"You wanna throw me out! So I'm going!"
he shouts. "I'm going, you bitch!"
The door slams.
We listen to our bodies breathing.
Soon we can hear the TV on next door,
like the sobbing of a broken woman.
And outside they are waiting for us,
their hands reaching into their coats.
I picture us lined up against the garden wall,
when at the final moment a man inside me will
scream at them, "I love you! I love you!"
AN APOLOGY
walk through the valley of the shadow of success
dragging the hills with me. You're the only one
who understands the failure in those peaks.
After I reach town and slip into
the store where dreams shop and find
that the black and white has followed me
through the brightly colored streets, through the door,
settled itself in the bill I can't pay, I want you beside me.
You're the only one who can forgive me for that place.
Somberly in and out of the window displays through rhythms
of ambition and credit the naked melody will pick its way, flashing
solid silver flutes for the cash registers,
slipping a few poignant notes to the housewives whose low-cut
imaginations swell with its cleavage.
We would add see-through lyrics to it, have a good laugh.
approaches with all its desperate bargains:
The boats are ready to set off into the discounted day,
so everyone's on deck drinking their promises from the bottle.
In their floodlit talk they examine the places
where I'll make you cry. But stay with me.
The way leads past the unused farewells
left on the oily planks, past the loneliness not lit
in the signal towers onshore, the plans gone dark.
There on the dock we'll hold each other and the beckoning
water will come loose and drift out into the middle
of our bodies with no hope of rescue.