If I grew my hair to my knees and dyed it to the color of the wind, would you still recognize him

If I pealed away at my fingers to make them look thinner, would you still be able to remember them

If I never walked into the sun again and took an eraser to my skin, just to be a bit lighter, would that be enough to disguise him

What if I even change the way I speak, a whole octive higher or perhaps lower, would his voice still be familiar

What if I make myself shorter or taller, with reconstructive surgery, do you think then you can be fooled by him

But what if

I break my nose and reshape it
   Take my lips and deflate them
      Gouge my eyes to replace them

Would that make a difference

What if I told you that you never had to see him again, that he can be different, he can be better, he could be anything

Would you believe in him





No...
But thanks for trying

I want you
                  to know that I forgot
the memory I wanted to expound upon here,
                  the tears I never cried make it difficult to dryly
blot the pages.
                  I suppose you know I never loved you, but
more meaningfully, I hope you now see how trifling and hollow
love is. Like a warm Spring day, love means nothing but the
nearing embrace of a dying star.
                   I want you to know what I'm referring to
in this line. It's called "astronomy." It seems to hold the
attention of other mystics, such as her.
                   But I want you
to know
                    that it's just about gravity and
luminosity and
                    what our star hasn't got, but
others have.
                    The wind blows my page as I'm writing this standing on
my porch, and I fail to
                    Look up. My hand holds down the dry, decaying
tree pulp in an attempt to stabilize the
                    metaphor for
Life
                    your absence has become.
When the dead leaves of last Fall rattle, I can see you there,
running past the chain-link fence containing me and the
tennis surface.
                     It would be weeks before sweat dripped from my nervous
head as we jumped up and down while others slow danced.
                     And then I wake up in my new apartment in a city
you've never been to and remember jumping was only me. It's been seven years, but
I still have my diploma from that early graduation--
it's above my fridge so I can ignore it every time I
reach inside
                      To drink the cool water and
remember the things I should have learned
and the time I ran fast, back
                       to your host parents' so I could use the bathroom
without you knowing, because my stomach was convulsing.
                        And maybe what I meant to say is that the earth's on
its yearly sojourn which brings me to that place-- that group of folding chairs
and the endless line of cows dancing slowly past the podium with nothing
but a piece of paper that tells them "you were once here."
                        It takes me on the highway, past my father's farms to that
man-made reservoir that irrigates them. It amuses Nebraskan farm boys
that the girls that ride along seem to know the way
                        better.
                        But you weren't from Nebraska, and you only knew the way
in water, in the bikini I helped you choose at target-- I don't remember the hue.
                         Your skin looked amazing and warm
                         transplanted, prairie-grass nestled gently on your supple thighs
under my grasping hands which held on firmly yet
were knocked off with the jolt as you spurred our gas-powered sea-horse, laughing
as we both sped off from our island rendezvous and
became oblivious of my self.

“Mommy, can I have this dolly please?
I know that I have other ones at home.
Can I?
Please?
Yes I know there’s kids in Africa that don’t have any dollies,
That’s not what I was getting at.
Mommy, I want it.
I want it.
Mommy!”
Remember that mom? How silly was I?
Greedy for all the wrong things...
I feel your hand now- soft, fragile, wrinkled- in mine.
The doctors tell me that you haven’t got a lot of time…
“She’s hanging on by the tips of her fingers.”
One of them told me.
Always a fighter. Even when you’re pale and frail.
How long will you be here, to hold my hand while the hospital machines tick like sadistic time machines?
Like a clock without conscience.
I want more ticks on the machine.
I want more heartbeats.
“Mommy I want it.”
No.
I want you.
You should see the snow outside, Mom.
Typical Nebraskan winter, I tell ya.
Remember when I was eight, and there was that huge blizzard?
The snow piled up, but it was a gentle snow. Fluffy. Light.
The snow will keep falling. Keep fighting, the way the flakes fight the wind.
(Sigh)
Your hair is so grey now. I remember when you used to dye it
To spite dad and his ever greying, salt-and-pepper style.
You’re so thin...
Ugh! Come back to me, let’s rewind
To the years when I could be greedy for dollies, and not for days.