Joshua Marie Wilkinson

ROWER, CHRYSANTHEMUM

The moon is full. Watch out!
—Tomaž Šalamun

 
Occasionally I like to
type your name into the slender box
on my screen & wait a moment
before touching return to
see if your face has changed
in the documents to which
you’ve granted our access.

And by our I think you know I mean
me. Don’t kid yourself, I say, & so
the fantasy’s misdeed unfurls.

That the clue is a compliant signal
readymade for what we need 
from it tonight.

What’s the true phrase for
what I’m after? I’m not looking for you.

I’m hunting, instead, for something back in
myself. Desperate for

a memory of you on which
to cast my stubborn desire.

Sadness again, like water lapping against
the anchored boat. I used to pull the line up
with both of my hands.

Dragging, hand over hand, the rope
becomes colder, heavier.
Sweat on my neck.
Little flags of kelp
squiggling to the line.

The mute speech of the anchor.
Substantial enough
to keep us from veering off course.
Wouldn’t want that now.

Then I discover the photographs
you took of yourself.

You’re lovely in that specialized
anger, the lonesomeness
of wanting nobody to see how badly
you’re hoping to be studied.

Behind your eyes, I can still see
what you used to exhilarate yourself with.

I still find you there. Hold my breath.
Go outside for a cigarette.

Let me say it aloud.

We met one evening many years ago
in another country.

Neither of us will mention the details
to anyone. Least of all to each other.

That is a sort of pact, I think.

And I hold it dear to my ribs
like a fledgling bird. And you’re
happy and laughing
in Minneapolis or Baltimore. It’s what
leads me in the lapping waves

as I get out in the shoals and tie the boat
to the pier. And the bird, of course,
is gone.

JOSHUA MARIE WILKINSON is the author of Bad Woods, Meadow Slasher, Swamp Isthmus, and several other things. He lives in Seattle, where he runs a small press called Letter Machine and a journal called The Volta with Lisa Wells.