marina buckler
UPON WAKING
i see you in your house with your eyes shut
leaning against the counter, with the volume turned up
to block out the sound of the airplanes flying
overhead. i see you push your self from room to room
your eyes still closed, your hands out in front of you
your fingers like tongues sensing for smoke, sensing
for prey. i see you climb in to bed. i see you climb out
& claw at the door knob, you open the door to the night.
you wander out past the driveway &
you sit on the lawn.
you press your hands to the grass,
you pretend he isn't gone,
you pretend he hasn't left you,
you pretend he took the cancer with him
like a long rope you never understood
rubbing against your skin,
trying to keep you warm
& now you're standing in your kitchen
& you're crying in to the telephone
to your sister, who lives in Albany
& she's stopped speaking
& you're thinking may be the line went dead
& you're thinking may be you've lost touch
& you're thinking you'll keep talking
because you've got some thing to say, you just
can't say it & the winter's coming fast
as a toothpick snapped between your fingers
& you've forgotten how to fall asleep
in corners, & now you're screaming,
& now you're saying, IT HURTS, IT HURTS
& you wonder if she hears you & you wonder
if any one ever has & you forget the comfort
of sound & you're kissing
the walls like the ghosts of old lovers
& the backs of your hands are like sand dollars
& when you finally feel quiet, you form a circle
around the television & the white light of the static
is piercing
& you feel some thing in you go blank & you think
may be it's a sickness; may be it's your blood.
you say, in the morning i'll make an appointment
with the doctor, (you remember the wrinkles around his eyes/
his coat of ether,) but you've already forgotten
why & you can't really figure
what happens next, & then you forget that you were trying
& you think you hear the telephone ring
but you're sure its not for you, & you've got
your legs flat in front of you & you've got
your spine bent over the arm of the couch & you've got
your eyes rolled back & concentrated on the perpendicular
of the window & the wall
& that's when you realize there's no time
for making up, there's a war going on, there's gun powder
under your fingernails, there's a bomb in the pipes
there's no thing to say & you're the only one
left alive on this whole planet & what is there to do now
except dig up the earth
& bury your self piece by piece,
so
you begin with your tongue
& when you wake in the morning the clock's
fallen from the wall & you walk to the bathroom to brush your teeth
& you feel the heat come on & the hum is barely
audible: you think it sounds like your body, hushed
& eager; you feel the carpet beneath your feet: it's wet
with blood & in the next room you can see
the television screen shattered & glass
every where, even
in your mouth & there's some kind of intolerable cold
going on & you think it's the sun so you shut
your curtains & you get dressed & you walk out
in to the drive way & you open the car door & you turn
the ignition & you're driving & you think you'll go to California
& you begin to feel your blood again, gone blank & nailed
shut in side of you & you keep opening your mouth to move the air around you
but no thing happens & you stop at red lights on the empty streets
& you think the seat is like grass
& you think about how you never said good bye & you think
what is it about the bones any way
& then the light turns green
& you keep driving.
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