October 6, 2014 by rebelwithalabelmaker
Me: Did you read that love poem I wrote for you?
Gary: What love poem?
Me: It’s on your email.
Gary: I didn’t see it. Can you look through the fridge and see if we have more butter?
Me: It might be attached to the email with the grocery list.
Gary: Did you text the plumber?
Eric (in what I might optimistically describe as the “background”): Die Zombie Pigment, DIE!!!
Me: Aren’t you going to go read the love poem?
Gary: Right now? The chicken would burn.
Anthony: MATEYYYYO!!! Stop being such a butt-crack!!!
Me: Look. What is more important. True love or supper?
Gary: I’m hoping to play my cards right and have both.
“my fingers are bleeding again”
is what I meant to tell you
on the ride home from Church
as I held the red tips up for you to see.
when it formed in my mind, it was
more of a complaint
but my mouth would not allow this
my lips, curled in the semi circle grin
of a new moon
coloured my words with joy and possibility
“my fingers are
is what came out
I didn’t even know I was smiling
until I saw my reflection
in the broad way you were grinning
back at me.
the hymn sucked.
the guitar’s strings wriggled and underneath my swollen fingers
like mice caught in a trap.
a year ago I was succeeding at
everything I touched, wringing straight A’s out of a tired and
And now I am
like a toddler banging on a piano
Same musical ability.
I am ten times happier
I got home and wrote
I lived in a daze of forgotten, oversteeped tea
and new poetry
My fingers sliding to the computer keys the minute I stopped paying attention
like a young tree branch that whips back
the moment you let go
I would try to do the dishes
and that just resulted in
soap suds on the keyboard
And so we descend a bit into chaos
Like when I was first learning trapeze, that one summer
and we pretty much lived in the trees of the park
and ate garden tomatoes and baguettes for supper three nights in a row
the red juice squirted out and stung my palms
where new calluses were forming
why is it
that whenever I am happiest
my hands always seem to be bleeding?
That one summer,
in that first trapeze year,
was when I stopped wearing a wedding ring.
I meant to have it resized to accommodate
the changing shape of my hands, but it seems like
they have never stayed still
You didn’t mind.
You never wore a ring, yourself.
Too much of a nuisance, you said, for someone who works with their hands
I used to wonder if it meant something, made us less committed
that we let those symbols slide away from us so easily
I would see photos of old married couples holding hands with matching rings and
try to remember where I left mine
guiltily aware of our naked, blistered, interlocking fingers
Now, I don’t miss it.
Our hands would look strange to me
enclosed by something so unalive
I do not want a symbol
that can’t change shape to meet
whatever it is
we are reaching for next
I am much happier with calluses
than with diamonds
P.S. You’ve already seen this video. I just couldn’t resist including it… feeling all nostalgic and all. Feel blessed that there are no guitar videos, yet, people. Feel very blessed.