My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I have to go for a walk because I can hear a helicopter, very close, very loud. The cloud cover keeps me from seeing it. In my hood, helicopters hover over crime scenes or SeaFair. Sheesh. The noise is making the cats jumpy, which they are often anyway.

I reread Richard Siken's Crush for the 20th time. Here's why:

Scheherazade

Tell me about the dream where we pull bodies out of the lake

and dress them in warm clothes again.

How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running

until they forget they are horses.

It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,

it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,

how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days

were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple

to slice into pieces.

Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means

we're inconsolable.

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light.

Tell me we'll never get used to it.

I gave a copy of the book to my ex. She didn't get it. She returned it to me. I should have known. Sometimes understanding a few poems together is what it takes. At least you can try.