september 2007 poetry project week 3

Poem 15. Empty Apartment This apartment is not for rent. Not for you, at any rate. You visited it before, I remember you. I walked you through the rooms, cleaned it through the cupboards before you came, scrubbed the fridge, repainted the walls. I showed you the water pressure, the light switches, the closets. I told you how happy I was here, the neighbours are quiet. You loved it. It was perfect. You said you'd take it and I waited for your call. Waited, waited, waited. Others called and I said I had rented it out. Rented my apartment. But you never called back. The apartment is empty. Don't come back now and ask to see it again.

©Rachel Levine 2007

Poem 16. I can’t sleep he says

and I don't remember my dreams either.

What was the last one?

He runs his finger around the rim of his glass.

I dreamed I couldn't sleep and I was watching late night television.

The sign behind him is for a band that played last week.

It was as real as this. This could be a dream, he says.

He stops the waitress with the Japanese Print tattoo on her shoulder.

He orders a beer and asks me if I want one.

No, I say. I'm living the alternative lifestyle.

Don't take that stuff so seriously, he says. You're airy enough. 

I want to live well, even in this moment.

Hours pass. I am drifting.

Sleep with me, he says.

He doesn't like to sleep alone.

Sleep with me, he says again.

While he sleeps, I look out his window in the windws of the house opposite.

There are no stars.

He kicks in his sleep and I give him my hand to hold until he stops.

___

Sept 17

by Rachel Levine

 

Poem 17. Saint

There is a place in the city

that only I know,

A place in the city

where only I go.

 

My statue is there, Saint Someone.

His eyes to God, his finger to God,

arm holding a Bible,

and someone gave him a bottle of Goldschlager.

 

I visit my Saint

and try to do a headstand for him.

Birds sit on his head.

He never complains.

 

Since he is enduring,

leaves that change colour, leaves that fall,

I ask him questions,

questions that seem important to me.

 

He doesn't answer,

but I know what he means.

 

©Rachel Levine 2007

___

Poem 18. I hate my facebook friends

I hate my facebook friends.

They're all Hamlets and Cassandras anyway.

Phonies and social retards,

Reduced to a portrait square and a status update.

"I is free like a bird" "I is tired." "I is as I does."

People I'd rather not talk to, so we have virtuality instead.

Poke, poke, poke.

Look at 187 pictures of me on vacation.

Here, have a beer, make it an iris for your garden.

I'll write on your wall if you write on mine,

And then we can get in on the foodfight,

Or become zombies.

Let's play at being kids without really playing, without really being kids. 

Let's connect without really connecting.

I would read your about me, but it's boring.

©Rachel Levine 2007

__

Sept 19

by Rachel Levine

 

The stars in my spine

have a tendency

to leak out

when I walk.

Wherever I go

I am followed

by a thousand stars.

 

 

©Rachel Levine 2007

___

Poem 20. three days

Finishing the doctorate

is scarier than getting married.

I have been engaged to my thesis

for ten years.

Now we are going to tie the knot.

In three days.

I can't wait.

I also can't believe it.

I will start a new life,

with a new name.

Titled, bedecked with an honor

of ten years of labor.

And for our honeymoon,

I am going to take the day off

Tuesday.

By Wednesday,

life will go on

and I will be back at work

and still need to lose five pounds

and still have to walk the dog

every morning at 6:30 a.m.

and still feel uncomfortable

around strangers

and argue with my mother

over my clothes and hair,

and I will still not have a boyfriend

in three days.

 

 

___

If I could give you anything,

I would leave a statue of a Buddah on your steps,

with a red balloon tied to his foot,

and a note that says,

"You're going to make it."

I would like to bedeck your door with an oak crown

and laurel leaves,

and a golden shield that says,

"Don't postpone joy."

I would like to release a thousand Monarch butterflies from your roof,

grow amarlysis bulbs in all the dresser drawers,

and let lightning bugs be the stars in the living room,

and whisper in your ear, "You are good exactly as you are."

I will fill the bathtub with starfish,

and blow bubbles until they float out the window,

and write on the mirror in candy apple red lipstick,

"You are never alone."

I will bake ovens of cupcakes with thick pink and green and chocolate frosting,

and we can feed them to all the hungry dogs

and all the homeless people,

and anyone who likes cupcakes

and everyone everywhere.