My heavy hands are gripping shower-panes.
Oh, this is nice, to feel hot water striking
the back of my neck, oh this is nice, to watch
droplets trace shapes on the glass, gravity
turned soft, and oh, its color is blue, my feet
are not moving, my feet are not moving at all.
I remember her hair spilling onto my face.
Dark rooms always look red in memory,
The sea was awake and it was blue but the room
was red and tilting, the red alarm clock
drifting, and I can't make it change,
it is still and it has always been 2:18.
I am far from home, and the sky is black.
Space curving in on itself, eight is my
number, this is how, and this is how much.
But the sky is so black, and my head feels
heavy, as heavy as my hands, and as heavy
as black words pressed against the page.
There is water on my tongue, in my mouth.
The water is not blue and far away
I am thinking of poems I have written
and have not been able to write,
the name of God is unpronounceable
as the red horizon slips into the sea.
No, I am in a shower, remembering
the sounds of waves, and no, I am not watching
drops turn 'round themselves, not watching how
the eight turns green, eating itself, as it turns on
its side, I cannot remember how you turned
on your side, only that your eyes were closed.
Josh Kellar teaches at Boston University where he is also a candidate in the Master of Fine Arts program. In 1999-2000, he was a Lannan Fellow at Georgetown University.
Potentially, might be ...