The Things He Told Me

The Things he Told Me

“Tell me all your secrets” She said.

My parents hate themselves.

My two cats love each other more than any human being.

I had an accident when I was nine

And when I was eleven I pushed my sister on purpose.

I want a white picket fence

I don’t want to be the death of me.

I have never really been in love,

But I promised someone I would love her forever.

“Tell me your truths” she said.

I don’t know what I believe.

I believe in true love.

I don’t believe in god,

but I believe there is magic in the third pew from the alter.

I believe men and women are created equal,

And all men should know how to drive a truck and skin a deer.

There are always bad people.

There are no honest definitions.

“Tell me your story” she said.

I wrote a book once.

No one bought it.

I guess that like all art,

It was a self-portrait.

I grew up right here.

Graduated there, skinnydipped in that water, and had sex on that soil.

I’ve had brown hair and brown eyes my whole life-

Just like my sister’s.

But these seasonal freckles

And that faded suntan

Are really telling my story.

“Tell me who you love” She said.

I love my mom.

She never yells at me anymore

And she looks at me like the man across the hall-

With worry and forgiveness.

I love my sister (I guess)

But she is kind of a slut.

I love my sophomore history teacher-

He once had us color in class.

I learned so much about the world.

“Tell me who loves you” She whispered.

Not the right people.

A girl who wants something impossible from me.

A girl who won’t believe me when I tell her:

“I made it all up” he said. 

I wonder

I wondered when you sat shotgun

Your fingertips on my forearm.

Your voice in my ears.

Your rhythm in my heartbeat.

My hands cooled my face,

when I was hot and sticky.

You just smiled.

I wondered then, too.

I had no appetite,

But I wanted to swallow you down.

Wanted to taste and feel you

To keep you deep inside of me

Filling me with wonder.

Filling me with hunger.

Then there were goodbyes.

Your poetry between my lips.

Your hands warming my face.

And I wondered then

Because I could feel the tears

Inside of me- where you belong.

I wondered when you were with her.

The frozen seconds of you too on expensive paper,

Brought me those same brown eyes,

That same tangled hair

Except this time- against her.

Tangled in her hair you were in her brown room.

I spit up a smile for you still.

Why is your smile

So overwhelming and all-consuming?

Why is every word of yours

Worth a thousand pictures?

Though I never could say it:

I wonder what that is-

If it’s you, filling me to the brim.

Then so much distance,

Starved and emptied me.

I Spewed out all my pleas.

Please.

I begged you for one sip

I longed for one more bite

You gave me nothing;

So I sustained myself on wonder.

Here we are now.

No pictures. No poetry. No hair or skin. No distance.  

Nothing sacred yields nothing broken.

Your heart and my soul, can’t make any more promises.

Overdosed and underfed by and for- you

I wonder. 

Denim on Rayon

Denim on Rayon.

He sank her onto the bed and followed her down. His fingertips slipped down the rayon defined curves of her torso and then clenched at her hips. He proceeded slowly, moving his fingertips down the sides of her cotton leggings and stopping at the hem of her dress. With new found confidence he slid underneath her clothes and felt the warmth of her skin on his. He kissed her neck and shoulders as he leaned into her body and his hands neared her breasts. She took a heavy breath.

“are you okay?” He asked.

“Mmmm.”

“We don’t have to do this.” He whispered. He kissed her jawline beneath her ear and she encouraged him by running her cold fingers up his naked back all the way into his scalp. The hair on the back of his neck erected. He kissed her lips and pulled her up right.

Her dress made a soft pillow behind her when he laid her back down, his hands cupping her breasts. He moved one hand down her stomach to the inside of her thigh. He Pressed her knee out and pulled away from her to inch into the space he’d made for himself.

“Turn off the light” She whispered. One shaky hand lay over her own stomach. Her other index finger traced the letters Levi Strauss and co while her thumb lie just inside the joint of the perpendicular zipper on his jeans. He moved his hand up her stomach and weaved it inside of hers.

“I want to see you.”

“Not this well.” She moaned. Her voice was saturated in nervous neediness. He kissed her chest and hesitated, but then nodded into her, his nose tickling her. He pushed himself to his knees with that hand and then leaned backwards to feel for the switch on the wall. when he removed his hand from hers she too sat up, her legs wide around him, and unbuttoned his jeans. Her hands were still unsteady and cold, but they were certain.

“do you want help?” He moaned. His voice dripping impatience and incontinence. She needed not respond, he guided her hand down the zipper of his jean and over his lap. She petted the outline of him over the denim, and inhaled deeply. She opened her eyes and tilted her head slightly upward to look at him, Her nose rested on his chin. He bowed his head and kissed her.

“Back up,” He breathed. He held the crotch of his clothes in one hand and took a couple steps back on his knees. She laid back and inched closer to the head of the bed, pulsing towards him again with every inch of separation, never taking her hands from his body, ceaselessly clinging to the anticipation.

He pushed her knees together with both hands and kissed the cotton that covered them. He drew her calves up over his shoulder and swept her into nudity. He then did the same to himself, and centered himself inside her.

What had always been fairy tale, forbidden, dark, and desirable was suddenly just his inhaling and her exhaling. His putting in the effort, and her opening up. 

With No Regard for Fall

With No Regard for Fall

(Summer Loving II)

That summer: I was eighteen, as was he.

he had a hard jaw, soft lips, sunless cheeks,

He spoke in poetry that trusted me.

We made love for a lifetime, in just weeks.

We screamed to Jimmy Buffet at sunset,

we sat up playing “secrets” after dawn,

He held my wrists under mosquito net

and dreamed of together in his back lawn.

I drove to his house all alone at night;

In my backseat we pushed away the fall;

We didn’t care if we were wrong or right,

because there I had him and that was all.

We weren't sensible but where passionate

And since the fall, I’ve wished I could forget.

the psuedoscientist

The Psuedoscientist 

        She asks me the stupidest questions. I give her answers her third graders would understand.

 “Babe, what’s ‘string theory‘” she asked for the third time this month as it came up in my recollection of my day at work yesterday. I’m a fucking physicist, if I felt like re-explaining myself four-times, I would be a teacher too.

 “I refuse to answer that again. We have gone over this, do you ever listen to me Becky?”

 “If I didn’t listen to you, I wouldn’t even realize that we are talking about string theory again.” she mumbled. It made me feel bad when she mumbled. 

        My wife is not the type to accidentally speak inaudibly. She teaches third-graders to read and write. Annunciation and pronunciation are probably the most important concepts in the world to her. There we go right there, quantum mechanics and atomic biology bicker in my brain, and all my wife hears is punctual pauses and word choices. So when she mumbles, I always feel bad. It means I have managed to make her feel so degraded, that not only is she inadequate at table talk with me and my PhD, she shouldn’t even be confident in her ability speak the way seven years at an elementary school and four years at a University English department taught her to.

        I am not really the abrasive and aggressive type. I definitely lack power and masculinity when I’m not at home. Again, I’m a fucking physicist, I don’t have any friends. I’m five-seven and I don’t have but twenty pounds on our husky -Eisenhower Fitzgerald. (but lets be clear, he’s a big fucking dog). I cant recall the last time I voluntarily combed my hair before I left the house or the last time I got invited out for drinks. I was a virgin till I was twenty-two. I was nineteen before I could ask a girl out.  I am not an intimidating piece of man; to anyone except Becky. I’m not very good at acknowledging her respect for me without abusing my intellectual authority. 

“I guess I am tired. I have a hard job. Besides, I was late because I had to finish my speech tonight and you know I hate writing.” Becky smiled and nodded at me. She knew I wasn’t lying, she’d met our secretary and all my colleagues; so she knew she would never have to worry I was getting any office ass. 

“Can I read the speech Babe?” She asked, clearly and loud. One point josh, crumbled the mumble. 

       I pushed my work across the table to her. She took the same purple pen to it she took to her third-grader’s chicken scratch and the bestsellers she bought with my credit card when she walked home from the school. Pissed me off. She has no degree of skill-set separation. Somehow I had ended up marrying the teacher I laughed at in high school, the one who told me her lower lever classes had students just as smart as me.

“Avoid the passive voice” Becky’s voice said as her pen crossed my paper. That shit doesn’t matter, physics matters, equations matter, my thesis matters. My research matters. Presentation is idiot work. I don’t even know what the passive voice is. Fuck giving speeches. Fuck social science. Fuck her nonsense editing.

“Whatever” I said. Okay, I’m a physicist, but intellect doesn’t dictate maturity. Becky smiled at me again, she is good with kids.

        Pen scratch: “Vary sentence structure.” Whatever, I thought. 

        Ink on paper: “Connect these sentences, separate those.” Whatever, I thought.

        Purple ballpoint circles in my margins: “Don’t ask questions in the middle of a piece like this. Don’t answer that which is rhetorical either.” She hmmed and ahhhed. The purple stain: “This is unclear. This is a proper noun, capital letter. That is repetitive. We should paraphrase your thesis here. Nice conclusion.”  What-the-fuck-ever I thought. 

“None of that is really important Becky. But you probably missed the good stuff.” I said. She hates the word good and the word stuff. But like I said, that didn’t matter.  

       She sighed and rolled her eyes. She was used to my belittlement. She has always said ‘its hard for me to respect how different our fields are‘.  but I’m pretty sure its just hard to accept lies under a pseudonym, purple pens, romance, and third grade thought processes as a respectable field; for anyone.

“Will you please read it to me?” Becky asked. I agreed. 

       I did none of that nonsense she does when she reads out loud. She reads novels to the third graders, and to our cats for practice. Sometimes, if she feels like a big girl, I will come home and she will be reading grown-up books to Eisenhower. She undergoes a process before she reads to them, or to me; if I’m in a good enough mood to bear that bullshit, or I can be sure sixty pages of Judy Bloom or J.K. Rowling will get me some sex.  She introduces the book and surveys the room. She stands up, or sits tall when she reads. She holds the paper at a distance, and looks up and smiles a lot. Sometimes she goes as far to ask our pets if they need any clarification or have any contextual questions. Stupid habit. 

         I held the paper right up close to my face. I stumbled over the first word. I mumbled out the second and third. Saliva projected as I approached what I hoped to be a maintainable vocal velocity. My hands were shaking before I got through the first paragraph, my voice soon after. Fuck that, I gave up. Dammit, I’m a physicist, I shouldn’t have to give speeches. That shit is for third graders I told myself, third graders and adults without a real field.

 “You’ll get it honey.” Becky comforted. I won’t lie, the empathy helped. She rubbed my arm and held me hand. I couldn’t tell if the hand holding was like: I love you we’re married we have sex we hold hands, or like: don’t be scared to cross the street or read out loud, I’ll hold your hand. 

        She read my paper out loud. Then again and again. Sometimes she would read the same paragraph four or five times, with different inflections and punctual pauses before moving on. She looked at Eisenhower for questions, and looked at me for understanding as she brought life to my genius at our kitchen table. 

       She started a new novel after I got home today. It is about a scientist. That’s nice I guess. She is having me read it out loud to her. She asked me if I was opposed to the role reversal, I said “whatever“. 

       Every couple pages, I have to look up to catch my breath when I read it to her. She listens carefully, and I can be pretty certain its not because she is looking for sex. She takes notes with purple pen on blue lined paper. A couple times, I’ve found myself looking at the pets for reaction, and at her for understanding. She asks me the stupidest questions. But the sad part is, my answers are none better than a third graders. 

Baby: He Blurs lines

Baby: He Blurs lines 

I saw him the other day

With his father.

Driving over curbs

Spilling coffee

Swashing through apologies

And slipping on speed bumps.

I saw him the other day

With his mother.

Sitting while laundry was folded,

Gossiping while cats were fed

Asking for money

Calling to check in

Bringing home cookies and making lemonade,

And waving goodnight.

I saw him the other day

With his best friend.

Riding his bike too fast

Working too little

Drinking too much

Blurring the lines between excess and climax

Shaking hands and keeping distances

Hitting lacrosse balls with hockey sticks

And blurring the lines between twelve and twenty.

I saw him the other day

With me.

Gently suggesting I pump my breaks,

Raising an eyebrow at cleavage and coatless Januarys.

Raising a hand at a thirty point scrabble word

Raising to stand at dropped gloves and lip gloss

Laughing at bad jokes

As long as they are better than last weeks

And remembering there is always room for improvement.

I saw him the other day,

And I thought:

I want a boy like that someday.

With fine light hair and missing front teeth,

To teach to be just like him

When he is somewhere between the lines

Of twelve and twenty. 

Thanks for Driving.

Thanks for driving.

I appreciate the ice coffee.

I enjoy the drive-thru windows and your order hesitance,

Straws and cleared cup-holders,

Cards and cash.

Thanks for the caffeine and cream that came

Eight hours into a fourteen hour day.

Some girls want roses and have thanks’ they’ll need you to say

But I’ve never felt more acknowledged

Then I did that long work day.

I appreciate the forgiveness.

You know about the sobriety I lacked on the roundabout.

About the ways I’ve made my mother cry.

About the accidents, and the purposeful detriments.

Worst though: I’ve sworn I hate you a hundred million times.

And you never hold it against me-

When I inevitably need you the next day.

It’s not right to lie to you

But the truth is hard to say.

I appreciate you being my hero.

For checking my fluids

And reminding me to turn on my lights,

For picking me up and bringing me home

And checking to make sure I get back safe.

Thanks for coming to get me when I locked my keys in my car.

You didn’t even yell.

Youre the only person I’d have trusted to come out.

Though with the way I act, you never could tell.

I appreciate your reliability.

It’s nice to think you wouldn’t lie to me.

You’re always where you say you’re ganna be,

Your always on time.

You don’t let me tell myself I’m beautiful and perfect

We both know that isn’t true.

But you’re always there to tell me I’m okay.

You’re reassurance and guidance,

And you’re there for me every day.

I appreciate your memory.

I’m confident that you know my birthday.

You keep names straight in all my stories.

You remember my schedule, my parent’s names,

And how much I prefer diet coke products.

You remember holidays, hair colors, and every bad story I wish you’d forget.

You won’t ever let me abandon the night of makeup you put on me;

Or how many good deeds I’ve done and times I’ve helped-

You have those locked in memory.

I appreciate your tolerance.

Thanks for dealing with tears at work,

And fights that weren’t your fault.

For listening to loneliness, hunger and hate

For remedying sadness time and time again.

Thanks for letting me wear robes in public

And sing without the radio while youre in a check-out line.

Thanks for getting to know that I’m crazy,

And thanks for letting that be fine.

Theres a lot that you do for me,

I don’t want you to think I take for granted.

I am more grateful for you

Then I will probably ever show.

But I’ve written this to tell you;

I appreciate you driving, just so you know.