Off & On
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on
(after Sylvia Plath’s “Fever 103”)
Neon in the blood, old drunks
shelter in my collarbone.
They awaken mid-nightmare
& flail. Sometimes the concierge
rises to intervene. But if nothing
is shattering, sometimes he can’t be
bothered. Outside, sirens tangle,
urgent & shrill. I reach
for the bottle, hesitate a moment
& pour. Why not lower the felted
curtain, nail up acoustic tiles?
Everyone is happier when I lay down
the broom. Let the upstairs neighbors
dance. Let them fuck and fight
all night if they wish. All night,
I, too, have been flickering,
off, on, off, on. I could climb
to the roof, adjust the antenna,
but what would I rather see than
snow? For what, precision? Leave
that to the grim surgeon, gloved
and booted. I am nothing if not
imprecise, even my kisses
wandering, the way I do in bookstores,
certain the life-changer is one shelf
over, or out of reach amidst
the overstock. Sometimes I sneak
to the rooftops to catch old views,
run the reel backwards until
California reclaims its exodus.
Banished from the past,
an exile, I can only strain
for the accents of my mother
tongue. All night, every night,
off, on, off, on, I rock nostalgia,
the most fretful of infants.
& flail. Sometimes the concierge
rises to intervene. But if nothing
is shattering, sometimes he can’t be
bothered. Outside, sirens tangle,
urgent & shrill. I reach
for the bottle, hesitate a moment
& pour. Why not lower the felted
curtain, nail up acoustic tiles?
Everyone is happier when I lay down
the broom. Let the upstairs neighbors
dance. Let them fuck and fight
all night if they wish. All night,
I, too, have been flickering,
off, on, off, on. I could climb
to the roof, adjust the antenna,
but what would I rather see than
snow? For what, precision? Leave
that to the grim surgeon, gloved
and booted. I am nothing if not
imprecise, even my kisses
wandering, the way I do in bookstores,
certain the life-changer is one shelf
over, or out of reach amidst
the overstock. Sometimes I sneak
to the rooftops to catch old views,
run the reel backwards until
California reclaims its exodus.
Banished from the past,
an exile, I can only strain
for the accents of my mother
tongue. All night, every night,
off, on, off, on, I rock nostalgia,
the most fretful of infants.
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