(This poem appeared as part of a ten-poem collection in Assaracus, Issue 09, January 2013.
To read more, you can buy the print issue here.)
Nature to each allots his proper sphere,
But, that forsaken, we, like meteors, err:
Toss’d through the void, by some rude shock we’re broke,
And all our boasted fire is lost in smoke.
— William Congreve, Semele
I’ll make every conceivable effort to ensure
that I don’t blurt out some hackneyed
three-word phrase, one of these hot nights
of July, fourth or fifth drink drunk,
I’m going to call you. You’re
going to sigh when you pick up
your phone, and my name will
sound like cod liver oil tastes
when you say it, because you’ve
been through this one or seven times
too many, and I’ll try to steer the
conversation (if I can safely refer to it
as such) toward Soviet cinema or something,
because I think you like it when I try too hard,
but I’ll end up telling you how the fact that
you’re never here is the reason I’m under
this influence tonight, and the reason
nights make me pine. I might not go
so far as to mention how warm my cheeks
get when I see you, or the wandering rush
that reverberates for a while through my
body when I hear someone say your name.
Prohibition. Now that was a good idea.