catch & release

Flash interruption: here and (too quickly) gone. Her eyes were the most crystalline of blues-- and I think they always are, but I've somehow missed that. I don't miss it anymore; ever since she stopped being black and white and edged into this surreal world of piercing color, I can't miss any of it/her. I don't know how she's managed to keep me hooked for 3 years, but my god, the things I still want to do to her: over, and over, and over again.

hallucination.

It may have been a creak in the house, or maybe
it was the churning, squealing repetition of the Pathfinder's fan belt-
a noise I've heard countless times before, a teeth-clenching
screech that eased its deterioration into my ears
starting last spring. April 2008, to be exact,
the dismal aftermath of our first major dissemination,
the time you called me from 300+ miles away
blamed me for your tragic downfall (was this the third? sixth?)
told me you couldn't stand be away from me, but "told"
isn't anywhere near to the synthetic thud of your voice
which sometimes still ricochetes in the most tender spots of my body.
But this time, this night,

one week ago. It wasn't a creak, and it wasn't the squeal
of damaged car parts. It wasn't quite the thunder of your anger
vibrating from miles away. The dining room floor sprawled
beneath my bare feet and my body stilled, tensed, stilled,
drew up its breath and focus. Your voice still lives in this house.
Its plaintive pain-fueled echo

bruised me back to that particular October
the night I couldn't find you
the night you sat on the floor of my closet
legs bent and folded, torso hunched, eyes glazed
and full of calculated surprise as though
you knew I would rescue you, there,
two empty prescription bottles nestled against your thighs
your stare blank and uneven, turning to me
as I pushed open the door
and you didn't even try to hide
the blood, the flashing promises of black and blue,
your gripping hand aiming, puncturing, over and over
into your forearms and thighs, each penetration
depositing life-saving poison directly into your waiting blood stream.
All I knew to do was hold you against the shakes
and endless chattering of teeth, sleight and stutter of tongue,
dire lack of apology or explanation. And while you never

called out to me that night: two years later,
your absence finally clear, your voice let loose
in the skeletons of this house, finally
drawing the ruptured strength from my knees and heart.