Speck in blue

It is marvelous how we change! 

After you quit, I could not bear 
the enormity of your absence
beside me as I slept.
Your not-body roared 
with fever scorching skin
I could have fried an egg 
on your empty pillow. 
Opposite me your not-body 
took so much space, spread
like a flayed fish stinking
to the highest heavens.
Grabbed by your not-body the blankets 
left me folded in on myself, 
small shivers never enough 
to keep me warm or protected 
as your not-body flailed 
through the night madly 
your not-arms into my face, stunning
even the brightest of moons. 

Eventually,
though I felt my decisiveness cruel
I evicted your not-body. 
That ghost slipped out 
through a crack in the window
and through the front door a parade 
of all my belongings
re-announced their preciousness,
stomping and hollering and beating
like a living heart.
I filled this house 

with the lush design of my dreams. 
And I did dream! 
And I did wake from those dreams,
resuscitated by the paradox
of your not-body and my body
existing in a future I could squint at,
like a ferry on the horizon
a speck in blue
coming home.

the optimism of a crane
the smathering sound of car tires on wet pavement
those revolting crotchet sculptures that ensconce an entire thing
like a bike rack or parking meter
 who has it in their mind to create

 such a grotesque thing?

Cult of the individual, cult of the collective

Refreshing like a stumble in the snow, the cold shock already melting

by the time I've righted myself, most likely explanation is

I've found a new way to be upset by an old way.

I've manifested a text from someone I last saw 13 years ago; 

coked out on a dance floor in Monticello, 

my head is vibrating as an awesome rash of guilty pleasure spreads across me,

and he tells me how you split his head open with a wine bottle and called 700 times 

when he could no longer bear it and left his phone off for a day.

I got off lightly and I'm still so angry for him too.

Coffee's in the works. We have settled, built our homes, he's off to Nyack soon. 

The potted history of men (?):

20s - she's crazy

30s - she certainly had her reasons, it's fine I suppose

mid 30s - crazy is not my word, fuck the patriarchy

40s - fuck the patriarchy, in fact fuck everything else and yes I'm still angry

mid 40s - nothing is my responsibility I'm still angry everything is my responsibility

50s -