American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 106

Once there was a man, and then there wasn’t, STORIES went, remember?
You advised me to cut the moons from an image of airplanes, taking off,
and I took it. I was learning. About moving to New York, the opera singer
is asking advice. This morning, it is easier to write of her.
Clarity over emotion, remember. Story over sentiment, you taught me.
I was learning. It was your last night on Earth, and I am sitting there,
drinking spirits poured over a single cube of melting ice. My lover says
Tell me when he thinks there’s something wrong, I am learning.
On the last night of your life, of which I was unaware, he said nothing,
and I was off, living mine, with him, my lover, cupping delicate tumblers of ice,
and you were off somewhere between everywhere and nowhere—ice,
ice, ice everywhere—Tomorrow, I would learn it.
88 • STORI ES

During dinner, and after, all the papers were poised to break,
with the dawn, the facts: last night was the last night of his life, the great poet,
etcetera. The party is talking visas and sponsors with the opera singer,
who speaks in broken English, wanting, wanting, wanting . . .
Why do I speak of this? Because it’s easier than saying
this morning I woke and hid from the light in the shelter
of the broad, living back of my lover, who was sleeping,
asking nothing, commanding nothing, loving, loving, loving . . .
Clarity over sentiment, remember. I am trying. Last night,
the opera singer broke into an aria to demonstrate something.
I don’t know what. When she stopped talking, when she stopped wanting,
when she stopped moving, her voice was beautiful and clear.
Once there was a man, and then there wasn’t, I wrote once, wanting, wanting.
This is STORIES (II). It is for you, who are missing. I’ve kept it poised,
clear, a promise to you, a tribute. It’s what you taught me. Tell me,
my lover says now, and it is simple, old friend. I cover my face with my hands.