1999, for carole
(maybe to arouse an awakening for poetry)
-love tom

this is a different version of 
the story-- in this
life i fold
chocolate wrappers into
the tightest squares on my 
end table but never toss
them in the waste basket--
in this story i nod to the titled
hat of the night light 
nearest my half
of the queen sized bed--
i eat books like 
fun size milky-way bars or 
cream filled hershey's kisses
only when i'm alone & not
attempting to fold myself
into bed with him--
during the day sometimes 
i take a moment to lay on
my back in the middle of the living
room & i imagine it as a biplane
falling from the ceiling towards
me-- i re-write my will
in my head & i leave the jewelry 
box to you-- my mother left 
me a necklace with one ruby
missing & it reminds me of us.
i don't wear the necklace
because he says he feels
like the remaining two rubies
are glaring at him & says i should where
the necklaces he bought instead--
the one with the sapphire & emerald
in the shape of some sort of
"forever" heart.
i hate new things.
i want to rust 
like old poems crawling free from
their silver wrappers.
i wish you would stop leaving me books
& writing in the front cover.
i think if he saw your handwriting
in all the red ink
he would know i'm irrevocably in love
with you.
i don't want to be careful--
i want to be precarious.
i want to have to wash
the pillow cases when you leave.
i live by looking forward to 
other people's birthdays-- 
i distract myself-- this year
my michael asked me to make
those chocolate lava cakes you
like-- you know they're from a box-mix
right? i keep telling myself
i'll try a "real" recipe but
i don't want to disappoint anyone--
maybe he'll change his mind
& we can have cupcakes--
i love candles in cupcakes even if 
they are box-mix--
if i make enough birthday cakes 
& light enough birthday candles
this year we can skip me turning
older & pretend
you're giving me a book of poetry
for no occasion at all--
just as a lover would 
on made-up anniversary--
i tuck the book under my pillow
& unfold myself like 
the edges of a reese's cup wrapper 
while i wait to share the bed again--
he gets in & takes the light from half the room 
if you're going to keep reading--
do it downstairs
-- he says
so i click the switch on my own lamp
& lay facing the other wall--
i was just paging through 
--i say
& close the book again--
i regret to say i find it hard to
read much.
the first page of most books is
good enough for me-- i like
to imagine an ending-- the endings
we imagine are always better
than what someone else can write--
oh you don't know what it
means to be awakened, tom,
it is a sensation that only grows
when i turn off a the lamp
& your words on the inside cover of
my books turn into the branches
of veins up your wrists
when you wrap me up like your very
own hershey kiss--
next time write in black ink
& we'll awaken together in
the rusty mouth of a dead poem--
he reaches over & touches my arm 
& i flinch because for a moment
i thought it was you--