The World After a Movie (19 October 2004)

We are each born with a syllabus
full of lessons to be learned.
Some of them we learn in darkness,
out feet stuck to the floor by will

and the effects of time. I exit
this dimly lit schoolroom a few lessons brighter:
always be on guard, learn what to trust,
let yourself love, and--if you ever get the chance--

don't buy a robot. Movies alert you
to the unexpected, to the idea that, at any
minute, you could be killed or betrayed.
The world becomes more dangerous.

Clutching the steering wheel on the drive home,
I tune my radio to the perfect mood music
and imagine that the unexpected is just
about to happen.

Life Support (22 July 2006)

for d.

When the machines clicked and ceased
beeping, I was almost certain.
There was no whisper of breath,
no pulse twitching in your jugular.
Most convincingly,
the machines had stopped their radar.
They had said this might happen.

I felt warmth surge
out of me, leaving only
frozen, tingling fingers,
an ice block for a chest,
and a vague, persistent nausea.
And--I will admit it--
I was angry at you, sick

with rage and loss,
as if you'd cut off my arm.
But as I reached out for you,
a trembling hand grasping
for my phantom limb,
I stopped, was resurrected,
and looked straight into your now-open eyes.