Radiator GAS BILL #3: Blanche Brown

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Years I Am in Love

Years I am in love
I want to eat
almond cake,
stand like a child
waiting for a bus.
I am done. My face
changed. I hear sounds,
rake the leaves
even neighborhood owls
are back on the hunt
I hold my head
in their direction.
My life could feel
good to touch.
See how I contort my neck
to the sole of my foot
where under the skin
a tenacious mosaic
thrives, each wart
my enemy, my hope—
Years I am in love
I slice the moon
with my thumb.
I wake up early
and slice the sun
with my thumb,
my hand a dutiful star
made of knives
I cut each hour
I cut each apple
into halves.
Numbers lose
meaning. I mark
the rose bush
my ultimate frenemy.
Even the smoke
from burnt brussel
sprouts seduces.
Years I am in love
I move through
Philadelphia and Philadelphia moves
through me, an arrow
of cement and cherry blossoms
Years I am in love
I look before crossing
the street. My houseplants
develop root rot. Years
I am in love I volunteer
to take minutes in every meeting
and misquote everyone,
but don’t worry
the agenda carries forward
and like this I keep the fumble
going like a good
football player I’m spiraling
headlong into the huddle
with fingers on the laces.
Years I am in love
time turns infinite.
Hope I must remember
is a discipline. I hold
a cool glass of water to
my cheek and count
the cardinals visiting
my apartment building’s
shared back lot,
like a herd of red angels
they anoint the day dutifully.
Years I am in love
I don’t look before
crossing the street.
I cook ambitiously.
Years I am in love
war remains rampant.
We compare lilacs
and wisteria, the mismatch
of scent and climate and
geography. A song rumbles
from the street. I catch
the outline of its music
and hold the shape up
to see what falls through.
Years I am in love
I visit the ocean regularly,
Years I am In love
I take any ride offered.
 I recall the firm pressure
 of their palm pushing
the lower rung of my abdomen
against a wall, muscle to muscle,
 a struggle under fluorescents
in an anonymous hallway.
The feeling becomes
the image, frozen
with a little sigh.
Years I am in love
Rain, parting like a beaded curtain,
embraces me. The blood seeps
out, pooling in the crotch
of my orange sweatpants.
Years I am in love
I hold back everything.
Tell me how it ends
before starting the story.
Tell me how you feel
without an ounce of translation
as you said depth
ultimately denotes time.
Years I am in love ruin me.
I divulge everything.
I fall asleep to birdsong
and when I wake
the shapes don’t match
the vision. The abandoned house
next door emits little beeps
the baa baa bleeting of a dying
smoke alarm battery.  I am
pierced, skewered if you will.
Years I am in love
the tyranny of the image
cascades around me.
I collect little seashells
and only watch Survivor;
I could stand alone
at the end of a great game
and coo like a turtle dove.
My forearms harden.
I pay great attention.
Some get off on certain
verbiage. Words like
“displacement” or “moon”
or “porous.” I perform
the same tricks again and
again. Years I am  in love
I cup water in my hands
drinking from the faucet
when every cup is dirty.
Some nights breeze
through everyone.
The rush of now pumps
hot in my head like an anthem
I clutch at the chemical
musk of old spice deodorant.
Years I am in love flickerpulse.
Years I am in love
The difference between
seeing and looking is for
someone else to explain.
Years I am in love I’m all
greased joints, rhythm,
and fine cartilage. Call me
a honed instrument better yet
call me. Sing a little
before the birds catch wind.
Years I am in love
I want the top down
Years I am in love make me
a sharp implement. I squat
and hang my head between
my feet. I perform every posture
in adrienne’s “yoga for suffering”
The pain persists for me for you
for everyone I love in the years
that I am in love