march
not a yearning or a wanting for, nor a longing or a craving - more so a remembering, a recalling of a capability / capacity to....................
I think of that Edgewater apartment now and then, how it sat at the top of a charming, four-story condo building where the tenants were mostly seniors and he was the only renter. It had gorgeous built-ins filled with books and boardgames, a working fireplace, two sunrooms in the front and back of the house, a large dining room with a custom table he built by hand, a regular pantry, and a walk-in pantry. Beautiful collected art adorned every wall in the house, and the rugs were all vintage, perfectly tattered in the corners the way a decent find at the flea market should be.
In the summer, we’d lay around in the backyard on a blanket and let the neighbor’s cat approach us if she felt like it. Her name was Zydeco. Her owner was a musician in his day. Vincent, the building super, would come down from time to time to tend to his garden.
That summer, Vincent pawned nearly a truckload of heirloom tomatoes on us. We carried them up the stairs, gathered in our shirts, and emptied the piles onto the counter. We made pasta sauce, pizza sauce, bruschetta with fresh basil and homemade cheese. We ate until we were full; we always had our fill.
One day, I bit into one of the tomatoes like an apple, let the juices run down my chin; he caught the dribble with a crooked finger before it could drop and stain my white dress. He drew his finger up to my bottom lip, tracing its contour before pulling away. I stowed this away in a memory file somewhere in my head marked Reasons he might want to date me.
I remember one morning, in his kitchen, we were both wearing our underwear. He fixed us bowls of cheerios and I poured us some coffee. We moved around the kitchen together in a sort of dance, completing our tasks and remaining close in the process. Our motions coalesced effortlessly as we moved from one countertop to the other, pulling cups and bowls from the cabinets, spoons from the drawer, spinning around each other to walk the milk back to the fridge. Our arms grazed here and there. He found an opportunity to let his hand rest on my back a moment longer.
Candidly, he said something like we are so good for each other. It hurt to hear.
For dinner that night, we ate pizza; sourdough crust, fresh mozzarella, basil from the garden, and a few of Vincent’s tomatoes—the last of the season. Before he crushed them up to remove the seeds, he sliced one of the tomatoes and handed me a sliver. It was perfect. It was all perfect. The flesh was ripe and red and tender, bloody, almost, and beautiful. In my mouth, it was almost sickening with flavor; with earth, with salt, with sweet.
I think of that flesh sometimes, gnashing between my teeth. I think of my sticky fingers. I think of the juice caked on my wrist. I think of his dirty fingernails, his long, unkempt hair. The beautiful sunroom with the slatted wooden shades. I could have stayed there forever, in that yard, eating a mountain of tomatoes, his finger resting on my chin to catch another drop in case it should fall.
It was all so dire at the time. More often than not, I sat poised an arm’s length away, waiting until it was my turn to play house again. I would have done anything to be let back in, to lie back on his sofa and watch while he set up a board game on the ottoman. I would have cancelled all my plans.
What I wanted, and I realize this now, wasn’t him, at least not wholly; for as much as I wanted to be with him, I realized I wanted to be him. I wanted his life, or at least the parts he allowed me to be part of. The garden, the artwork, the collected furniture and shared dwelling with someone to really love. I forget sometimes that we collect parts of people we meet as we go along. For a long time, it used to cause me great pain to think that a person could be lost due to time and circumstance, that some people don’t remain forever constant in your world, even if you’d really like for them to.
That apartment at the top of the condominium doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in the way I came to know it. Perhaps the owner sold it; maybe it sits empty like the photos in the listing last time I looked it up.
I can’t recall the address anymore; one time, I texted him just to ask. Though I’m sure if I hopped on my bike one of these days and pedaled north, I’d eventually find my way.
Poetry practice - March
For what it's worth
I did find the worth
in what you said,
only it was after
You left last night
and I felt something
sort of--a wanting
that was not there
before
Listen while you read
As always, thank you for reading. This is a free publication—would mean a lot to me if you shared <3
My play, Existential Slumber Party, is being produced this summer. Keep an eye out for dates + tickets.
love
Ur Short poems are doing it for me lately