By C. Roses Lambrecht
Drawing © Lana Gentry
I stopped talking live and in person.
“People won’t know what you want unless you tell them.”
So I’ve been told.
but today I believe that to be a singular lie.
I’d look you in the eye the fragrance of lilacs and a day into summer have us stumped.
I’ll give you all I got. All I got is all I can spare.
Since I prefer to leave the land as empty handed as I came.
Except I won’t cry leaving as I did arriving.
I know better.
And I’ll miss you.
It’s not the lack of presence or promises that gets me.
I appreciate the truth when it’s embalmed and unmoving.
I heard you been seeing things.
Do you make anything with those impossible visions? I worry you don’t.
I worry about you when you’re not looking.
So most of the time.
People look and laugh at me.
So I don’t let them know I’m lonely.
They don’t believe me. I don’t care.
What do all the men and women telling me asking me what I already knew actually do.
What are we doing here?
I see you right after right before my eyes are closed.
I’m too scared to ask you for the truth.
I don’t think you’re a good enough liar to make me feel better.
I’ve been invited to go away.
Even an hour outside myself seems such a decent offer.
But it’s not me. And it wasn’t you doin all that askin.
So I walk when I’m told not to.
Not meeting a single person in the eye.
Softly petting leaves on small oak trees. Peering through the holes in their stories at the sun.
At my own pace.
The heavy set boy on a two wheel bike is bossing his smaller friend with a turned back neck and hurried on Spanish.
It’s a midnight showing at the Lower East Side Angelika Film Centre,
I imagine everyone can tell.
And instead of being a young asshole, the boy with the broken neck bicycle is saying something romantic.
Something about my dressed up peasant heart,
N. 15th St I always make a right turn on for reasons left untold,
and how – how the men are undressing,
I’ve stopped talking – nothing’s normal.
There’d be a subtitle to end all subtitles.
Nothing would change.
But before everyone left this small place they’d read.
About the girl owning ribbons of silence- the heart of a peasant- touching what remains of the natural light upon a small oak trees leaves.
and there’s always what’s noticeably missing.
That’s what has to be read, cause she won’t say.
She doesn’t know how to locate what
I don’t know how to locate what comes naturally. Adoration for one.
And the end. She’ll be found sitting by the river alone.
Her own hand on her own thigh.
It’s the same awkward story.
She’s been invited to go.
many confusing scenarios.
none sound like they should exist.
None sound beautiful.
The boy on the bike with his broken neck and slung back Spanish knows.
Love. Love one day surprises you.
He’ll sit down. places his hand over yours – your hand that’s been waiting so nervously upon your thigh.
And you’ll try not to cry.
but happiness whispers it’s okay.
We should all believe,
one moment we cry out of happiness.
C. Roses Lambrecht