I Woke Up With Blood on My Jeans

“The spirit and space,

                                                The empty spirit

                                                In vacant space.

                                                What wine does one drink?

                                                What bread does one eat?”

                                                — Wallace Stevens, “The American Sublime”


The stage was set, where we met.

The bar lined with drinks, all things

needed to dull senses, make regrets.


Your beauty transcended rationale

(a dress from the 50s, it seemed),

shoulder to shoulder, to head on lap.

The dark didn’t touch us; a held

moment, so long—we took it with us.


We staged the months gone by,

months we had, making darling.

A dance slick, we dipped in the tarn.


Woke up next wanting to leave.

I can’t account for this.

You overpowered me so.

I had so little to offer you.


Klieg lights, and dance strobes,

Copeland, and champagne,

the earth shaking; my lips broke utter,

only hurt harder, my blood feather…


Aftermath, too vivid,

pregnant phone calls—

I can’t call you by that name.

I woke up with blood on my jeans.


The savage mistake we completed.

How I miss the making…sometimes.

In ten years, we’ll meet again,

have nothing to say, make eyes from afar,

in commemoration: our wounded exchange.


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