Friday, August 13, 2010

The Poet's Fridge/Letter to eileen

I left my needle in the poet's fridge
that summer
in Provincetown

Dear Eileen,
I never told you what was in the blue bag
it sat in your fridge like a brick
on the bottom shelf
it took up space in the vaccuum
of your giant, empty poet's fridge
You must have looked inside
while I slept in an upstairs nook
a room designed for artists
and art
but instead it was me
while your girlfriend looked
into the blue bag
(who wouldnt look inside
a blue medical bag
placed by a stranger
without asking
behind cans of seltzer)

The Poet (hero)
and her girlfriend
never asked
'what medicine are you shooting
into your leg in our guest bathroom
why do you look green
ten minutes later'
(the poet knows drugs)
(the poet knows that my needle doesn't fill itself
with drugs,
but with medicine)

The Poet has seen so many
big and small
friends and presidential campaigns
and now I sit
in the new england summer
with an epi-pen micro-fine
jammed into my thigh muscle
unprepared for reception
interferon killing me
in your home seeming perfect
for those moments
I died
until other needles were poked
through my chest
in jest they slid
pulling only air
and bits of flesh
behind them
'play' needles they were called
by tattooed voices
to make them seem innocent
objects no different from paper dolls
air rushed my lungs
and a girl cried
guilt rising in her lungs
pouring out her lips
She Wasn't Ready Yet
To Go This Far For Play
I walked
up commercial street
with my shirt off
dry needles stuck in flesh
and blood dripping to my waist
as i ordered coffee
what a poseur

Dear Eileen,
I'm sorry
I never told you
what was in the bag
I put it in your fridge
Your Holy Poet's Fridge
I am sure you know
it was only medicine
I hope it didn't shock your lady
as i was shocked
by the bowl of perfect citrus
laid sterile on the marble countertop

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