jr

To Make Yourself Cold
by JR

Some, like the woman of whom
I am thinking,

move from place to place
collecting feathers,
too busy, I think, with human feathers
for their animal skin hats,

to pause even when paused,
to not speak even when not speaking.

I want to say she is afraid
of silence, but that is not true.

I want to say she is afraid
of thinking beneath the skin
of a man like myself,

and that she is absurd,
and a vagabond fool,
but those things are even less true.

There are, of course, missions, maps,
and handsome boys to be won.

I am not your prize.
I am not your man-whore,
or boy toy.

Retiring tonight,
having said goodbye,
is bound to be a slow,
coughing crawl
to a tiny death.

There is the option of
seeking out coffee.

At the place where I get
my breakfast, a sleepless night
behind me, there is a young man
seated across from me.

In the tube light,
his hood puts a cowl
to his face.

I reach my hand
across the table to his.

I tell him about the
woman from Toronto.

He listens.

He tells me things like,
"Don't worry," and
"Everything happens for a reason."

I nod when I feel like screaming.
I drink when I feel like dying.

My left hand is wrapped
around the piping hot Styrofoam cup.

My right hand is pressed
against the cold glass window.

The sun moves left
to warm itself on my heavy eyes,
and lingers.

"There are missions, maps,
and handsome women to be won,"
says one part of me to the other.

I hush the thought,
like a stern parent,
shooing a child to bed.

At the place where I get
my breakfast, I begin to think
it's time to listen to
the _________.

I struggle to make
my thoughts of her cold.

It is like putting ice
to a large wound,
and the ice keeps slipping,
and melting away
between your fingers.