PATRICIA SMITH
You’ve gone crazy. I’ve packed everything I am
to come to you. Your eyes are rolling back into
your head, your heart is rolling back into history,
your words are rolling away from me. You make
me read a letter you wrote to your wife. You won’t
stop crying. You come home from work, and I see
the madness in you. You walk in circles, sweat
dots the front of your shirt. I think you are full
of shit. I think you are full of longing. I unpack
boxes in my head. I write you a letter that begins
with I love you and ends with I love you and
somewhere in the middle is one goodbye for
every hurt. I run out of time, I run out of paper,
I run out of steam. The key for the letter G and
the key for the letter O and the key for the letter D
and the key for the letter B and the key for the letter
Y and the key for the letter E fly off my keyboard,
they are tired, as tired as I am of the pushpull that is
this crazy you, this out of control, careening you,
this you who comes home and says I have made
an appointment to talk to someone. Talk to me,
talk to me, talk to me for free, tell me how inside
out you are, tell me how you can be the same man
whose kisses twisted me away from this world,
tell me what “I am in love with two women” means,
instruct me in the fine art of unpacking boxes.
Let loose those bottles of Gentleman Jack,
stop thirsting for things that are bitter,
go crazy here, here in these arms that are still
wrapped around the absent shape of you,
go crazy with me, thrash about in our bed
and weep and wail and call me by her name,
at least have the courage to let our hearts break together,
here in this place where I can reach down,
grab a shard and cut my fuckin’ throat.