My goodness.
I’ve been transferring my old files to my new computer. I found this poem, which I wrote in grad school at NYU. I thought you might like it.
The Weight of Failure
With thanks to David Ives
She’s been very upset, for, let’s say,
the past few days. He said something
glib, maybe a little too quippy,
and while he let it fall out of his mouth
and onto the gum-stained earth,
she felt the white strands of context
fall away like…like hair that’s been bleached too much…
* * *
She’s been very upset, for, let’s say,
a week now. And why? Is it because
she feels unheard, wary of her inclination
to…to wallow in the bayou of despair,
or something…to play both hostess and guest
at her own pity-party, and yet
she does it anyway because, frankly,
she finds a sick pleasure in it?
* * *
And why? Is it because she is having many doubts
about herself, perhaps her height (too short?)
or her breast size (too large?). Or maybe it’s
her taste in shoes, or the clippity-clippity
way she walks in those shoes,
which really can be quite annoying,
especially in hushed twilight, when families
gather ‘round the dinner table to eat baked chicken
and boiled rice? Do families even do that anymore?
Is it because she is afraid of being a disappointment
to men who wear wire-rimmed glasses?
Is it because he is not looking up at her, he is too busy
cutting his meat?
* * *
Did that last question
sound a little too intentionally vulgar
and/or clever?
* * *
She is not very pretty.
* * *
She is kind of pretty.
* * *
She’s what you might call…rather attractive.
* * *
She is very beautiful, and he,
oh, he is a winsome, windswept boy!
* * *
She is very beautiful. Her leg is stretched
beyond the table because it is too long
to fit underneath without hitting the table.
Her luminous blond hair—
* * *
Her leg is twined around the leg of the table.
Her luminous auburn hair—
* * *
Her hair, the color of….
* * *
She is beautiful. She doesn’t think so,
never has. He does think so. He doesn’t tell her.
There is no need, of course.
We all know that if a need for that sort of thing
existed in this kind of environment
(i.e., “intimate relationship,” which,
if not kept in check can lead to
what we try not to refer to as
“co-dependency,” see footnote),
it would only be a sign of a starving ego.
After all, who’s to say what possesses “beauty,”
if anything in this sunken world of ours,
with its fashion magazines, its complimentary facials
at the Lord & Taylor and its advanced methods
of safe and painless hair removal. As a society,
our definition of “beauty” may lean towards
trends, “passing fancies” if you will—
* * *
She wears a black sweater (a Christmas present
from her mother)
and he has on his red flannel shirt he wore
the night they sat and chatted on the floor
of a roachy, mildewed apartment.
Somebody threw a party for them,
their birthdays landed two days apart.
She tried very hard not to speak with him too much,
so as not to bother him.
But they talked anyway,
as the evening peeled itself off like a stocking.
He made no motion of displeasure.
Perhaps he was apathetic.
She liked to think that he was thoroughly interested
in what she had to say.
When she exclaimed
“Oh I hate poets, I find them to be particularly dull”
did she note a slight exhalation through his nose?
Was that laughter?
A cough?
* * *
She is wearing a cream colored Aran knit sweater
she bought for herself from a catalogue.
He has on his purple plaid flannel shirt that he wore
the same day he told her he had a—
what did he call it again?—
an appointment with a woman
he once was married to,
as if that experience and all the luggage
that it holds (the hopes grown moldy,
the death of joy, the weight of failure
and whatnot) can be likened to
a visit with your dentist.
Trying to be brave, she ate her Chinese food
without a whimper, and browsed
the record store though her eyes felt sour.
They went home, and without a word
between them, pulled the covers over their heads,
clasped hands and touched noses.
It was lovely.
But the form of the coming day swelled
and glistened. She would write a poem
about it the following week, and search
its lines for reassurance.
* * *
They speak in civil, intellectual tones.
She uses her hands, as most Mediterraneans do.
Her emotional level is extremely, well,
almost embarrassingly high.
* * *
They speak in civil tones.
She wants something from him.
She knows she can’t get that something
from him.
He tells her she’ll never get that something
from another person.
He wishes she would just relax.
Her stomach hurts.
He is taking sips of water.
She takes gulps of wine.
She understands his point.
She repeats it back to him.
For a split second what she really wants to do is
jump up from her chair, the chair skidding behind her,
and say something like What do you want from me?
or Choose me! or Do you know who I am?
She doesn’t do this. After a brief fantasy,
it sounds unappetizing. Besides startling the man,
it wouldn’t even be apropos.
She is quiet.
He has no idea.
* * *
She feels like she’s stuck in a Pinter play.
* * *
They have grown tired of the conversation.
(Here is where someone with a lazy-voweled
accent, perhaps Claude Rains or James Mason,
would say something like
I find this conversation to be wrought with tedium, or:
Ah fannd thisss converzashun to be roht with teediumh.)
He gets up from the table, and takes his coat.
She wonders where he got that coat.
She wonders many things about what he owns.
Often, she will ask him when he got things,
as if there is some safe answer,
pre-wife, post-wife,
as if one will please her more than the other.
Does he know about this automatic calculation?
* * *
The answer is:
There is no safe answer.
