Fallings

- for the Grateful Web

I can only distinguish the months by the he that he has become.  Now, he is an actor who plays a bartender at night and has replaced the mid-town businessman who reminded me of my father.

 

     It is 4am I am sound asleep dreaming of personalities that take form in other bodies.  In front of me there is a young girl that looks like a child I taught how to ski in Colorado, but she is not her- she is my mother and I am telling her how much I fear losing my hair but she can't hear me over the television show my brother (who looks nothing like himself) is watching – she keeps asking me to repeat myself and I keep forgetting what I've said and say something different though I know its not what I've said before nor what I want to convey.

 

At the same time he is in a poorly light bar with blue plastic chairs that swivel and large wooden statues hanging on the wall as if on a pirate ship or the insides of a miniature golf course at the New Jersey shore.  He is touching girls' arms, asking them to repeat their drink order – everything is getting darker and darker.

 

     In the middle of a dream, my roommate gets up to go to the bathroom.  I know this because my mind has switched and I am now in the basement of a ship.  It is old and sterile, everything is metal and I'm having trouble locating the stairs that will bring me up to the top deck.  I find a man who is sitting in a corner looking at his hands.  I tell him about all the times I've tried to deny I had a body but he isn't following and I begin to feel the ship is sinking.

 

     In the morning around 8am, all of this reverses.  He is now at home in the basement of a two family house, one that shuts out the sun and smells of urine.  He is rolling, falling under the blankets to avoid the light that I am walking through on the way to the subway.  For days it goes on like this – both of us in and out of different conciseness's, different frequencies – two days existing as polar opposites, forming a negative when placed against each other; his white body against my dark sky; my dark hands falling though his white buildings.

 

     I enter the subway tunnel, no more together then I was above ground.  The train comes and I try to figure out how to contort my body to fit into this vassal.  I imagine unscrewing my limbs, holding them as carry on luggage and venture though the closing doors just before my hair gets caught. 

     When I emerge on the other side of the tunnel, he flips over – realizes the opening in the blacked out window that sends a streak of light across his eyes.  He swings an arm to fix the cut in the curtain and I disappear.

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5 Comments

Lisa Edson's picture

I'm right with you, Emily

cm's picture

i'm left of you, emily. very nice poem. big ups to the brooklyn redhead.

erin's picture

Lots of really innovative and beautiful imagery. I liked the world I was in while reading it. There were some sentences that jolted me out of that world however, there weren't many but I seem to have that jolt in other writtings of yours. If it is intentional I would want it to be more so, if it is not intentional then maybe you'll consider leaving certain images behind for use in another story. Really liked it though.

critic kilroy's picture

miss crocker,

you approach language like a contortionist does a straw - with grace, purpose and physical ingenuity. You never seem to take the easy way out, instead pursuing the marrow of experience. Throughout, my body is subject to the affects of your 21st century rhythmic irrythms - there's no experience like it.

tubesock's picture

what do you like better? Things...or Stuff?

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