One day, I was in love.
And then I was not.
One day, I was living a life
that was at once familiar
and peaceful.
I remember
we made gnocchi
one early evening
while the music played
throughout
our one-bedroom apartment.
We stood in our tiny kitchen.
I remember the blue tiles,
the yellow paint, owl
teacups stared out at us.
Outside, the sky was slowly
turning pink.
The music played,
heart beats, slow and
filled with aching
and the pain of joy.
I knew the music
would stop eventually,
but I still looked at you,
and spoke words that would
vanish into thin air, into
the music’s heartbeat,
into the evening sky,
staining the concrete
with a blameless pink.
I’m glad you have good
taste in music, I said.
You have a nice smile, you said.
I laughed and the music played,
pure and tender.
One day, I was in love.
And then one day, I was not.
But the music
I can still hear it.
And it is still filled
with such sheer
blinding
beauty.
I turn over
in my sleep.
Was it just
three weeks ago
when we first met?
These days,
time
seems so
condensed.
A lifetime
passes in
twenty-four hours,
everything changes,
distorts, evolves.
Things are lost
and found,
misplaced
and irretrievable,
people emerge
and fall away.
Nothing remains.
We are
the minutes
that tick by,
voices
sailing through
the air.
You told me
once,
that everyone is
searching for love
in their own
way.
Their loosened
hearts stumbling
through the darkness.
Their arms
outstretched
clutching
at the air,
hoping
to land
on something
soft and warm
and true.
I wish
I could’ve been
that person for
you,
for all that
have come
and gone.
I wish
we could’ve been
those people
for each other
all our lives.
Instead,
I’ll write you
these lines
and you’ll
put
pencil
to paper,
trying in vain
to graft
something
simple
and true.
For the last three weeks,
it’s been hard for me to find
the right words.
I think the night was ‘resurrected’ for me.
‘Redeemed,’ you say,
and you are right.
Yes, the night was ‘redeemed’ by the last poet.
Her stories flowed from another time.
I could feel the history of it.
Its magnitude.
Like I said, there seems to be the right words,
but they’ve been eluding me lately.
Where do they go
when I’m not using them?
I hold up a thin candle;
its faint flame illuminating
very little.
The word is just outside the circle of light,
hiding serenely in the darkness, safe.
I move towards it,
and it moves too,
beyond my reach.
I don’t see how she can …
‘Reconcile,’ you offer,
and you are right.
I don’t see how she can ‘reconcile’ her independence
with moving across the country for someone.
Abandon everything for someone.
Is that what love is?
I wish I could find the right word to express
how I feel about that.
‘Bewildered,’ perhaps.
‘Incredulous,’ maybe.
I take a break from the words
and sit on my balcony, in the sun.
The words sleep quietly in the dark.
I will wake them
when they are ready to be heard.
Do you remember
our car ride
through California?
The sun and wind,
those ten days.
All of it.
No road
could hold us.
I didn’t care
for roadmaps,
and neither
did you.
We existed
in this
closed box,
headed on
a journey
of no return.
The wind
and air
and sky
all around us.
We shone
just as we were,
didn’t we?
You saw me
just as I was.
I loved you,
boy,
I loved you,
didn’t I?
We drove along
the streets
of Los Angeles
in our rented car.
Remember,
I didn’t want
a roadmap
and you never
cared for them.
We rented a hotel room
in West Hollywood.
The room was lit
by a single
bare bulb,
the sheets
were thin
and itched,
the carpet
was threadbare
and worn.
We threw
the sheets up,
and hurried
beneath them.
We were
never so close.
At night,
we met a man at a bar
who told us
we must go
to Venice beach.
We did.
We shared fish tacos
on the boardwalk.
We ran
along the beach,
the seagulls
glittering in the sky,
the sand endless,
our laughter
effortless and wide and clear.
We shone
just as we were.
Later,
the deserts of Indio
opened up for us.
You in your rolled up jeans,
me alongside
in high-waisted shorts
and an oversized hat.
There were
endless throngs
of beautiful people
in sunglasses,
white fringe,
expounding on cleanses,
contemplating yoga stances,
bare-breasted women
and musicians
tongue kissing on stage.
The music
began,
the stages
flooded
with lights.
You looked at me
and I felt
the world
beginning
and beginning
again and again.
The sun scorched our
bodies brown,
we glistened
with the midday
heat,
the music
never ends.
It never stops.
We danced
and danced
and danced.
We smoked
with strangers,
we laughed
until we cried,
we kissed
until we were sore.
When night fell
our second wind rose.
I heard
the music
pick up again.
I was
who I always
wanted to be,
there with you.
You were rain
drenching
the cracked desert
earth.
We were
who we
always
hoped to be.
I love you,
I said.
I’m glad you exist,
you said.
And the world
kept beginning.
when I was younger I clung to you
the roots of a tree gripping the riverbank
shifting waters could not move us
enveloped by mosquito netting and protected
while balmy breezes blew within a decrepit shanty
the cracks would not let in the pain
shards of light reflecting mirror side up
bruised forearm, broken finger
I cannot find you in your dark
hidden by your rage, I search for you
the splashing, laughing pool
flipping through the pages of a torn photo album
you call out to me from your hiding place
a quiet voice beneath the fists
loving pain, gentle brutality
comforting violence
sometimes, glimpses of you emerge
falling rain, glimmering laughter
and I hope for your light
my image in your eyes
my movements in your stance
quiet rage
shifting below
whispering madness seeps into light
mosquito netting, broken finger
morning grass, afternoon tag
and I remember you
as you were, as you are now
soft folds of a blanket
and the radio hums within the hut
hammock swaying
cradled in the softness, protected in the netting
soothing cooling
ointment glides on the burn
healing tissue replacing cut
a soft scar in the shadow of forgiveness
and I can see your light
I remember what my mother told me
when I was eight years old.
One day, we decided to exchange
a Super Nintendo console for the
one that came with the Donkey Kong game.
In the Zellers parking lot,
she gave me the box to carry.
I walked with that box in my tiny hands —
my mother by my side.
The box grew heavier with each step.
And the closer we got to the electronics section,
the heavier it became.
Meh, I said,
(‘Meh’ is Lao for mom) Meh, I said, can you carry it for me?
I gave her my most helpless look.
She looked at me then and said, Deep
(‘Da deep’ means ‘little eyes’) Deep, you’re just afraid.
And yes, I suppose I was.
We walked up to the Zellers employee —
a shaggy-haired fella
who stood behind the counter
organizing double A batteries.
My mother stood by my side, wordless.
She didn’t speak English that well,
but even at eight, I knew that language
would never be a barrier for her. I want to get the one with Donkey Kong, I whispered.
Afterwards, we walked outside to the car.
The sky was this purple and pink colour —
the same sky I’d paint in my art class years later.
I held the new system in my hands —
this one included the game.
I played Donkey Kong all summer long,
and if you were wondering,
I can lift that console quite easily now.
Here I am
again
in heartache.
I tried to write
a poem of anger
and betrayal,
but it just
came out
trite.
Here goes anyways.
Boy meets girl,
girl is unsure.
She goes against
every doubt,
every instinct,
and she gives
boy a chance.
They say,
love grows
where pity lives.
Now let’s pan
to almost
four years later
and her doubts
have become
real problems.
I mean,
real issues.
I don’t think
about the future,
he says to her. That’s the problem,
she replies. I don’t want to have
children
now and maybe
never.
That’s the problem,
she replies.
But wait,
just wait for it.
So the breakup was hard,
but amicable.
The girl was sad
but she was
dealing with it.
Then one day …
Are you listening?
Boy
texts her for coffee.
Sure, she responds.
She knows
the news will
be bad.
Actually,
she knows
exactly
what he will say.
She’s known it
for quite some time.
She’s known it
before he could
even admit
to himself.
It’s not good news, he says, you’re not going to like it.
I don’t want this to mar
what we had.
See what I mean?
Cliché.
It’s all been written before.
Oh well, here goes.
I’ve been seeing someone.
Not a stranger.
But someone you know,
someone you trusted
and admired.
I’m with her now.
I know, girl replies, I’ve known it all along.
And the look
of shock
on his face
makes her
want
to
spit.
All this has been lived before,
she knows.
They spoke together
in calmness
in that coffeeshop
on that street
in that city.
She left for her home
while he made
his way back to her.
But then
the hours went by
and the days went on,
and
she
began
to
unravel.
She began
to revisit
every moment
every look
every word.
She remembers
the night
it all changed,
the night when
he didn’t come home.
The minutes ticked by,
the hours passed along,
and
still
he had
not
come home.
She read aloud
to herself,
to comfort
herself.
And as she read
the darkness outside
changed to light,
the sun rose on a new day,
and still
he had
not
come
home.
In truth,
it was over between them.
She’ll give him that.
It had been over
for weeks,
but they still
shared the same bed,
they still
kissed each other goodbye,
they still lived
with a dying, ruined love.
After that night,
he avoided
touching her,
and she pretended
not to notice.
In truth,
she was not
altogether sure.
Was she going mad?
But he was so
excruciatingly
obvious.
It was painful.
And when
he sat across
from her
with his tissue,
sniffling
because of a cold,
excusing himself
to use the bathroom
while bringing his
phone, she sat in
silence
and stared at
nothing.
She imagined him
texting a friend,
maybe texting her,
for moral support
so he could say
what he came to say.
Let’s get this over with,
she thought.
And when he returned,
he said all
the things
people feel
they need
to say.
In a nutshell:
What we had was great,
but now I’m fucking
one of your friends.
Thanks for everything.
My conscience
is newly relieved.
Now I leave you
to deal with that.
Also, I’m happy.
I’ve moved on.
It’s been three months,
but she’s met
my sister.
Maybe we’ll get a dog.
When did it start, she asks.
He says
they waited
until he had moved out.
How respectable of them.
What about that night
you didn’t come home?
I was with her.
Of course.
We didn’t sleep together. We talked all night.
All right.
She wonders about people
like this.
A musician and an actress
begin a sordid affair
before the end of the musician’s
relationship to the poet.
It could not be more
pedestrian.
She remembers
how the musician
and the actress met.
The chemistry
was palpable.
They could’ve showed
some kindness
some restraint.
But they are not
kind people.
She watched it unfold
like a play
and when the actor
spoke his confession aloud,
she was neither
jolted nor hysterical.
But the look of shock
on his face
as she stared out at him
with calm placidity,
that was
priceless.
She thinks,
perhaps his new girl
is a better actor
than him.
But she has seen
the actress perform,
and this is not the case.
There is a
desperation in the new girl
to be lauded and admired.
Perhaps
this new girl feels
a sense of
triumph,
but it won’t last.
This girl is fickle.
This play is
poorly written.
The characters
are placeholders
for ideas of
what it means to be
human.
They’re flat
and
played out.
He is out of her life
except when she wakes
in the middle of the night
and reaches out
for nothing, but a
dull ache
and the sweat and shivering
of a poor player
who’s forgotten
her lines, and she
shudders to know
that she could have
loved someone
so weak.
Sorry,
I apologize.
I wanted to write
a poem about
anger and betrayal,
but it just came out
trite.
The Morning After
Nokyoung Xayasane
The light holds here
through the silken drapes
hanging on your walls
that separate
our murmured voices
from the outside world
I hold this memory
like a grain of sand
encapsulated in time
on the brink of
falling
through the overturned hourglass
The white sheets
still hold the brilliance
of the night
Our laughter
effortlessly weaving
a pattern on the ceiling
an open window
letting in the evening air
Your books on the mantel
ease me into
the hollow
of your neck
the curve of my spine
the small
of your back
Scattered on the floor
my blouse
your jacket
Coming together
in the hours before
filtered light enters
through curtained glass
that expands and is everywhere
the warmth of the sun
on silken drapes.
(September 2010)
