Our Bed Is Also Green

Josh Bell

 
Please speak to meonly of the present             or if you must            bring up the past bring up only that
which you and I             don't share. I know            this is a selfish thing to ask. Yes, as Ihave often             remarked, shore lunch            at hanging rock was lovely. Yourhair and mine             stayed put. Later on            we didn't, as we do now, pull it fromeach other's clothes             as if for final proof            that we've been sleeping with each other. In the glorious             picnics of the past            we simply knew such things. The rockupon which             we sat, ran beneath            the lake, and was the same rock wewere both looking             over to the other            side at. I almost felt, believe me,as if we were             two people. Person,            I nearly could have said, hold on.Instead, I used             the name we had            agreed upon. Not your fault. A nameis useful, it helps             with the blankness            I am sometimes feeling in regardsto you. I apologize             for saying this            out loud. You are not the blanknessI am speaking             of. Plug your thought            or daydream into me, and theyor I will often             fail to light. You are            beginning to see what I mean aboutthe past, how I,             despite my facility            with pliers, and eye for detail, may notbe suitable. What was             your name? I am            not kidding. What comes will run us throughfrom the front, we             pull our way            down its length if only to see, at lastwhat has ahold             of the spear-grip.            Therefore, the future, as a topic, is sadlyalso out. Instead, let's             cast the deep side            of the weedbed together. The lakeis black, like slate             we scrape across            with paddles toward the weedtops,sticking up, like alien             flags, above            the invisible settlements, the castleyou've dropped             your hooks            inside of. I love how destructiveyou are with the fishes,             so go ahead            and bring your war against them, Ramona,against the duck,             against time,            against any things that swim. Our fiber-glass canoe is of             burnt orange;            our shapely hooks of shining gold;our giant rock, also             somewhere in the lake            beneath us, is the bottom, towardwhich the minnow,             lip-hooked, dives            after the lead, its weight a thingthe minnow seems             to follow, as if            we sent it dropping both for what we hadto give away and still             we didn't want            the lake to have.
 
Copyright © 2010 by Joshua Bell. Used with permission of the author.

Poems by This Author

One Shies at the Prospect of Raising Yet Another Defense of Cannibalism by Josh Bell


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