by Matthea Harvey
Technically, “lonely me” was a tautology.
No one had ever stuffed carnations
in my tailpipe or planted a symbolic
lipsticked kill on the swingdoor
to my kitchen. When you appeared,
I knew I was in a race against the sun
before they took you away on a stretcher.
I spruced up the counters with spit
and a sponge-I wiped my slot machine
mouth clean. I shut the door, locked it.
I shouldn’t have-you were just here
to shop-but I was way past worrying
about the seven deadly sins. In the show
about the sea lion and natural selection
he got scratches from his lover too. Even
in rope restraints, you were a scorcher, sweetie.
The radio said we needed to repeople.
I should have given you a running start;
I gave you roses. I persevered-I professed
the principles of capillary attraction,
made you a plaster-of-Paris statue of a peacock,
wrote hundreds of haiku. The odds on you
loving me where a thousand to one, but there you were:
nibbling my toes in your nightshirt,
kissing me on the mouth in the mudroom.
My chest felt like it had undergone mitosis,
it ached so. I marveled at the maple syrup moon-
it had a luster unlike any linoleum.
We watched the lake breeze lift the leaves
through the keyhole. Inventory was low
and we were out of holy oil. Helicopters
landed on the hospital roof
every hour then every half hour.
-from Modern Life: Poems
