Naked you are simple as one of your hands

A Poem by Anon ymous, Occupy Chicago Poetry

esta es la verdad: ¿cómo la mano
encaja en la mía, que mi piel se quema
de su tacto, la forma en que se pierden
en el otro y es el hogar.

The last table is taken. You nod when asked if I can join you.
No glance. No words. You are engrossed in a book of poems.
I am thinking of summer, blonde fields, the sun a burning ember
in a deep blue sky. My eyes drift up when you turn the page.
I count one, two, three times when the page is turned back to
re-read. I imagine you are sad. Sad in a weary it is time to wait
again way. My mind drifts to snatches of poetry memorized in
school. There’s a couple at the next table, in their sixties,
dressed like they are coming from church.

In love yet, they share their space in comfort. She lightly
touches his hand when he says her name. Smiles at me and I
know they believe we are together. I want to wish it true. Your
sleeves are pushed up, lips a thin brushstroke of red. I ask you
the time; an inane question. I am not going anywhere.
Don’t need to be anywhere. Don’t want to be anywhere but
here. All my destinations are unplanned, bent. The road
unmapped, filled with potholes, every turn is crooked and
sharp. We listen to the impatient shuffle of feet from
customers lined up, barely aware of the low murmur of
conversation. The background music is Dylan. I know what

I want the answer to be: You tell me how to catch fire, how to
hold the spark in the palm of my hand. You tell me how to live
with ashes and dust. How you want to teach me to rub the stain
from a crucible, polish it, hold it to flame until my breath turns
to smoke. You tell me everything I am thinking is true. That
aqua blue is the color of sincerity. That shyness is a refuge,
desolation a virtue. The café is empty. Street lamps flicker,
the city struggles to stay awake. We are unnoticed. I study the
curve of your mouth, want you to feel the weight of loss;
consider the heft of grief, its every angle and bend. I want to
know how it feels to get lost in the motion of you moving
within me; that feeling of being home.

this is truth: how your hand
fits in mine, how my skin burns
from your touch, how we get lost
in each other and it is home.

Unsent letter #12 [I still think of you when the world gets like this]

A Prose Poem by Anon ymous

Dear,

How you told me 11 is the number for clarity;
it’s morning, rivers and sleet. It’s anything
wet: sweat on a glass of beer, a splash from
fish, silver and sleek, It comes before blood,
before the impact of Agent Orange, before Dow
Chemical burns the flesh from children running,
before we learn how to swallow loss. You love
this town, its broken pieces laid out before this
Great Lake. The park by the canal is deserted,
gulls pick at tourist leftovers. I imagine you
painting, writing, listening to your favorite
playlist; firefly or lush or a Monsanto madness.
I watch the lights on the hill go out one by one
by one; count them until everything becomes clear.

Love,

Unsent letter #12 [I still think of you when the world gets like this]

Unsent letter #12 [I still think of you when the world gets like this]

A Prose Poem by Anon ymous

Dear,

How you told me 11 is the number for clarity;
it’s morning, rivers and sleet. It’s anything
wet: sweat on a glass of beer, a splash from
fish, silver and sleek, It comes before blood,
before the impact of Agent Orange, before Dow
Chemical burns the flesh from children running,
before we learn how to swallow loss. You love
this town, its broken pieces laid out before this
Great Lake. The park by the canal is deserted,
gulls pick at tourist leftovers. I imagine you
painting, writing, listening to your favorite
playlist; firefly or lush or a Monsanto madnes.
I watch the lights on the hill go out one by one
by one; count them until everything becomes clear.

Love

Unsent letter #15

A Prose Poem by Anon ymous

Dear,

I remember things not related to love: how one day
you took off your wedding band to see if he would
notice; how Francis is your favorite saint; how the
color orange tastes like grief. The days are starting
to get shorter; wish I was someplace deep and green.
Do you know I love your imperfections? Each one is
the perfect sin. There’s a moving van across the street;
a plane unzips the blue from the sky. The downtown
skyline is a layer of gray. The landscaping is all done;
the mallard and his mate have been gone for days.

Love,

Unsent letter #14

A Prose Poem by Anon ymous

Dear ,

By now, you’re over the ocean; there’s the rustle
of pages being turned, the flicker of dim lights.
The scent of the moon has followed you, clings
to your skin. Before you close your eyes, I’ll
tell you this: there’s nothing the air cannot hold;
the soft crescendo of leaves in winter, the splash
of a fish in summer, a grass-stained knee; even
this letter folded in your pocket. I’ll find your
favorite tree. Take a twig, soft brown and brittle,
put it on the window ledge; wait for a bird to pick
it up, fly it to you.

Love,

Unsent letter #13

A Prose Poem by Anon ymous

Dear,

I want to lie with you on a narrow bed
in a simple room; a plain white sheet,
blank walls. There’s one window; outside
a field, then woods. Your arms wrapped
lightly around me. Your blouse, sweater
and green skirt with the frayed hem hang
over the back of a rocking chair; bra and
panties on the floor at the foot of the bed.
There’s a bell, a quiet chime; it’s Sunday
morning. The slant of rain is illuminated
by the moon. We’re unafraid, marooned
as long as we choose; lost on this blue
quilted sea between dreams and sleep.

Love,

Unsent letter #12 [I still think of you when the world gets like this]

A Prose Poem by Anon ymous

Dear,

How you told me 11 is the number for clarity;
it’s morning, rivers and sleet. It’s anything
wet: sweat on a glass of beer, a splash from
fish, silver and sleek, It comes before blood,
before we learn how to swallow loss. You love
this town, its broken pieces laid out before this
Great Lake. The park by the canal is deserted,
gulls pick at tourist leftovers. I imagine you
painting, writing, listening to your favorite
playlist; firefly or lush. I watch the lights on
the hill go out one by one by one; count them
until everything becomes clear.

Love,