LION'S MANE

the painting of that proud african lion which graced the north wall of your blue tiled kitchen, it was the last possession i wanted returned to me;

it became something of an obsession.

so i walked to your house defiantly and we talked then shouted and moments later wood and paper shards were strewn all about the bedroom.

i gathered the pieces and left for the door unwillingly, understanding that every step meant i moved farther away from you,

the real real you -

your hair, your skin,

your ass.



i took what i could and threw them in the yard:

a mane, a foot, an eye, the fur of the tail,

and left them to rot.

a misty rain on on a thursday on the second to last day in may washed the paint away from each jagged shape,

its stuff spread across the grass and spilled into the pavement, running into the street becoming a mess of a thing.



on your step, i smoke a cigarette and, moments later, i've trapped a beetle under an empty whiskey glass while a stranger passed by and didn't ask me how my day was;

didn't ask me why i thought i was the center of the universe;

never once begged me to tell her that i loved her.

and i was grateful for that favor, she must have been a sage to have had the foresight to know that we wouldn't last,

that everything passes,

that all the joys we could share would, too.



a lingering smell of lilacs entered my senses while i walked through the park not needing anything,

i sat under a maple tree and watched the trail of an airplane far up in the distance spell some unfamiliar name and every moment that passed was filled with something -

the bark of a german shepherd,

the bell of a tandem bike,

the crackle of a cigarette smoked

the splashes of water colliding into itself in the fountain -

and all of it became boxed in a memory, instantly.



the memories of us, whatever meaning was left, it went with the paint,

like it, it faded away,

was immediate in its end, and went on and became nothing.



what can i call all this feeling i have that refuses to be translated or even told in the first place

the feeling of losing something constantly that couldn't be lost in the first place,

something which was nothing at all,

in the first place;



with what names, what words;

what profound statements or conjectures?

what else is there to call it, but love?