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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. CommentsComments are closed.
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