Snake-Eyes

Do you remember running your hands through my hair? 

the play of your nails in my split strands?  

The truth of the matter is that I never liked that, 

I never enjoyed the itchy feeling it gave me, 

felt like a rush of lice, frankly, 

and so no, I didn’t have cancer, 

I didn’t receive treatments, 

I shaved my head, every two days, 

would run the Daisy shaver over my knobs 

and bumps, 

had to stencil the nicks and cuts 

until I got the hang of it, 

and even then, 

I was so worried I would miss a spot 

because how would I explain 

it didn’t fall out just there, 

that spot right behind the right ear 

that I was always afraid I’d miss; 

you were too kind or too afraid to mention it, 

so I guess I didn’t.  

Miss, I mean.  

But I noticed that the dog-petting action stopped:  

that is how I thought of it, you know, 

and don’t tell me because I know 

that’s not how you meant it, 

or at least I hope not, 

but with you, 

it would be hard to say for sure.  

Hussy, puppy – what’s the difference 

how you thought of me?  

Without the grace to explain yourself, 

I wanted to know what made you tick, 

some aberrant clock you were, 

what made you move like you did, 

some distilled honey you were, 

slow and down the side, 

trying to coat every rough edge 

with your vinegar’d sweetness.  

It’s late, and I don’t expect you have read 

this far; I expect you saw “Dear…,”

and guessed the rest and settled in for a beer, 

this sayonara barely a blip on your radar.  

I can smell your relief from over here, 

where I am, away from you.  

It’s peaceful out tonight, stars coupling 

with the quizzical Dark Matter they say is 

actually most of the known universe, 

the same Dark Matter that they also say 

we don’t actually know anything about.  

So that’s us:  most of our world 

made up of stuff we know nothing about.  

Well, so it’s you.  

Most of you, 

and I knew nothing about your essence, 

what made you be you.  

I think of the Dark Matter as that god 

that Pascal said we might as well bet on, 

just in case.  

There He might be, everywhere, 

obsequious, and we have to wager, 

just in case.  

Moon makes a hole, 

if you think about it, 

a rip you can see right through, 

but if that’s the other side, 

the tear in the fabric 

from the land of the living 

(hardly seems accurate as descriptions go), 

it’s dusty, cratered, and dry.  

Pocked and falling apart slowly, 

more of a metaphor that it has 

any right to know.

This house is better without you, 

I don’t have to pretend 

about my back hurting to avoid you, 

and you’d be surprised how quickly 

I recovered from the ‘displaced’ ‘hip’ injury 

that made me limp 

when you bothered to notice.  

Oh, and I sleep naked now, 

just like I used to before I met you, 

before I became so cold-natured 

and bought all of those flannel grannies.  

Donated now, 

like so much other detriment 

of our time together.  

I’m asking you, as someone you used 

to (still do?) love, move on.  

Do me that favor, please; 

it’s been almost four months, 

in case you don’t remember, 

and I’ve not heard from you, 

or seen you, so I know you’re hurting.  

It’s okay, that’s called ‘healing’ 

in some circles, 

and I want you to have that, to know it, 

like I do.  

I’m just so tired of being angry, 

at you, at you with me, 

I’m tired of your pity, and I want you 

to know I’ve moved on, 

I’ve left you far behind.  

There are clouds starting to come in, 

separating the Dark Matter and 

the rip from our view, tonight, 

isn’t it wonderful, it’s like the Dark Matter 

is spinning a tale of protection 

for lovers such as you and I, 

keeping from our sight that dry, 

dusty, barren place where we’ll go 

when we die.

© 2006-07/12 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved