Present Tense by Sarah Defuso
i want to be alone in every direction. the way i stand,
eyes closed in the doorway, listening for the rain — hesitantly;
i hinge my intellect to my hipbone, to my holy
gray, glacial body — futureless;
a grave that no longer looks like a grave,
dreams that always end in death, but i am not bothered
by the parts i don’t understand — “the only thing weirder than being born
at all is dying.”
i am more careful now, soul-heavy, existentially
sour, interwoven, rather than compartmentalized —
(the things i tell myself to keep busy)
— i am in a strange part of the world. there’s one thing
that’s followed me here, something
to be had at the hull of my ghost — something to be had,
but not for long. i want you better. i want the winter
to win — “but who could love anyone more than the tree loves
the plum?"
it looks like something happened here — you have to capture it
before anyone notices. i try to write about home
but i end up building a new one, our highly-caffeinated plea
for still bodies — “i supposed all animals are ultimately unknowable. even
our parents.”
the salted streets call to the storm; it burrows deep,
like it loves me — (everything is always more serious
in the present tense) — i wish we could talk the way
we write — i wish we could write the way we flood the streets — “memorize it.
it’ll become part of your body. literally as though you’ve eaten in, and now
you carry it around in all of your cells."
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