My Secret
Even if I did not dare invite anyone, I still wanted
a party—the fountain downtown to change
times, a saxophone to start noodling out of nowhere
as I crossed the street past mine or simply
a friend to sit me down at the table of pressed-tin under
the striped awnings where chestnut trees bloom,
a girl reciting from a book of dead poems:
holiness, danger, and the smell of lime.
The waiter bringing me coffee the way I like it—
scalding but not too strong, the tiny metal pitcher
of chilled milk. I would eat pie—hot with a small
dab of ice cream, the crust shattering as it should,
the fruit beneath sour enough to pucker my lips,
and I would remember what you stay alive for–
the days like merry-go-round horses— pretty,
painted, circling. I would know better than to wish
any fairground tricks, no jolting ascents or
swooping falls. Only a long dullish novel to read,
a train ride where I might stare out at fields—
hayricks and children playing in mud, a town
confettied for some minor regional festival which
would be my party, the one I throw myself, in
which I whisper to a stranger one true thing–—that
I know how far I have gone, that I am glad to be
returned, pulled from that blue edge—knife-flat
or turning wheel— what it is to be torn, paper-light.
And I would tell this person—this stranger,
yes, this world is glory, but always the
dust-bunnies under the bureau, the parts of yourself you
long to wrap up in old t-shirts and hide under
the bed, a book you are afraid to read, why I
need this small private celebration—still me, still
here—the mornings and middle–of-nights when
I am the cricket sawing its legs to sing.
