( ⚂ ) ❝ If you love me, Henry, you don't love me in a way I understand. ❞
Click to viewTHE DISLOCATED ROOM
It was night for many miles and then the real stars in the purple sky,
like little boats rowed out too far,
begin to disappear.
And there, in the distance, not the promised land,
- but a Holiday Inn,
with bougainvillea growing through the chain link by the pool.
The door swung wide: twin beds, twin lamps, twin plastic cups
wrapped up in cellophane
and he says No Henry, let's not do this.
Can you see the plot like dotted lines across the room?
Here is the sink to wash away the blood,
here's the whiskey, the ripped-up shirt, the tile of the bathroom floor,
the disk of the drain
punched through with holes.
Here's the boy like a sack of meat, here are the engines, the little room
that is not a room,
the Henry that is not a Henry, the Henry with a needle and thread,
hovering over the hollow boy passed out
on the universal bedspread.
Here he is again, being sewn up.
So now we have come to a great battlefield, the warmth of the fire,
the fire still burning,
the heat escaping like a broken promise.
This is the part where you wake up in your clothes again,
this is the part where you're trying to stay inside the building.
Stay in the room for now, he says. Stay in the room
for now.
This is the place, you say to yourself, this is the place where everything
starts to begin,
the wounds reveal a thicker skin and suddenly there is no floor.
Meanwhile,
there is something underneath the building that is trying very hard
to get your attention---
a man with almond eyes and a zipper that runs the length
You can see the shadow that the man is throwing across
the linoleum,
how it resembles a boat, how it crosses the tiles just so,
the masts of his arms rasping against the windows.
He's pointing at you with a glass of milk
as if he's trying to tell you that there is
some sort of shining star now buried deep inside you and he has to
dig it out with a knife.
The bell rings, the dog growls,
and then the wind picking up, and the light falling, and his mouth
flickering, and the dog
howling, and the window closing tight against the dirty rain.
Here is the hallway and here are the doors and here is the fear of the
other thing, the relentless
thing, your body drowning in gravity.
This is the in-between, the waiting that happens in the
space between
one note and the next, the place where you confuse
his hands with the room, the dog
with the man, the blood
with the ripped-up sky.
He puts his hands all over you to keep you in the room.
It's night. It's noon. He's driving. It's happening
all over again.
It's love or it isn't. It isn't over.
You're in a car. You're in the weeds again. You're on a bumpy road
and there are criminals everywhere,
longing for danger.
Henry, he's saying. Who is it that's talking?
I thought I heard the clink
of ice to teeth. I thought I heard the clink of teeth to glass.
Open the door and the light falls in. Open your mouth and it falls
right out again.
He's on top of you. He's next to you, right next to you in fact.
He has the softest skin wrapped entirely around him.
It isn't him.
It isn't you. You're falling now. You're swimming. This is not
harmless. You are not
breathing. You're climbing out of the chlorinated pool again.
We have not been given all the words necessary.
We have not been given anything at all.
We've been driving all night.
We've been driving a long time.
We want to stop. We can't.
Is there an acceptable result? Do we mean something when we talk?
Is it enough that we are shuddering
from the sound?
Left hand raising the fork to the mouth, feeling the meat slide down
your throat, thinking
My throat. Mine. Everything in this cone of light is mine.
The ashtray and the broken lamp, the filthy orange curtains and his
ruined shirt.
I've been in your body, baby, and it was paradise.
I've been in your body and it was a carnival ride.
They want to stop but they can't stop. They don't know what
they're doing.
This is not harmless, the how to touch it, we do not want the screen
completely
lifted from our eyes, just lifted long enough to see the holes.
Tired and sore and rubbed the wrong way,
rubbed raw and throbbing in the light.
They want to stop but they don't stop. They cannot get the bullet out.
Cut me open and the light streams out.
Stitch me up and the light keeps streaming out between
the stitches.
He cannot get the bullet out, he thinks, he can't, and then he does.
A little piece of grit to build a pearl around.
Midnight June. Midnight July. They've been going at it for days now.
Getting the bullet out.
Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light, the light.
Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light.
