Bad Had Good
after melancholia, to a friend across an ocean
I don’t know how to say. How?
Matter. Look, if it’s not Something,
Something to take us all at once,
like a planet eating a planet,
or something to take us one by one,
take us in groups, as a tornado does,
a train wreck does, a plague.
Somewhere, a bride cries,
heaves her breasts, gives up.
You know what’s out there,
stroking you without touch,
like angels watching you struggle
to reach the itch where soon a tattoo.
This is why you do not sleep.
At night, silence in your ears
make mine ring. A simple statement
you sent, smoke signal or SMS.
“I’m bad. Had good night.”
“Call me.” You ring.
I’m making toast. I leave it
in the toaster, eat the butter
by finger by finger by finger
until I bite myself, until I stop.
Together we find answers,
glue them to our beliefs.
The world holds you to it far, not near.
Fear strikes you to flame like
matches. I tell you, “No more beer.”
I make kale and coffee. I ward
off cancer cells by caffeine,
by greens, by saying, “It’s not real.”
What do you make? Tears? An idea?
Time for me at dawn,
always then as it yolk hatches
across your sky, tomorrow. Time.
Time zone, time zone. Time.
I can’t know what you can’t know,
you, my friend, my great white,
but I tell you you’ll be fine. Concrete.
“Hätila ragulpr på fåtskliaben.”