Memory in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction

We like to think these are dreams, or a story
we once heard, then repeated. We like to think

we were better dressed, less suspicious, more in
love. We like to think that we argued less, about

less trivial things; that I laughed too hard when
Josh called my t-shirt the colour of moxie; we

could never agree on the merits of John Cheever
or Frank Zappa. We like to believe that film fades

while memories grow; that words can replace what
we have lost. We like to forget that mornings were

often difficult, or how often we endured an awkward
pause; that being away, too often, felt more like home.

(You can view a short film of this poem here.)

My most autobiographical poem, yet

I want
a house
by the
ocean,
the one
just to
the right
of here,
where water
will cover
my scars.

Saturday 5 August: 2pm

You stormed through the back door shouting,
“What’s with the Portuguese and parades?”

You wouldn’t apologize for the warm coffee
because it wasn’t your fault. “Twenty minutes!
Twenty!” You stood over me, arms akimbo

and I was careful not to smile too soon, which
isn’t an easy thing when I think of arms akimbo.

“I couldn’t cross the street. Had to walk
blocks just to find a gap.” So, I lifted my legs

from the coffee table and swung around while you
dropped to the couch and tucked into me, nose
brushing my neck, nostrils no longer flared and I

continued with the crossword puzzle, searching
for a 7-letter word to describe the phrase, At

this very moment. You whispered, “Perfect.”

Morning observation #77

This life is slow
without
                you.