May 2014 - Comments Off

Rumination after Two Years

Ben Redmond '14

It got dark and I let it. In a letter I wrote and ripped
before signing, I told you how I never finished
watching Cat on a Hot Tin Roof because the first
half had you next to me and I don’t want to know
how it ends yet, exactly. I’m on the floor in a house
where everyone is sleeping
and maybe I want to be like the morning
light in your kitchen, spilling
through thick window glass onto even more glass—
the plates and the fat, yellowed jars on racks with your mother’s cacti
on the windowsill, the one bright succulent we bought
from an old man in suspenders who called
us married, who sold us a plant with thick petals
and a browning disease in its stalk. I want
to be the kind of light that is impossible
to recreate, light that only exists as memory.

The night I wished
your driveway was forty miles longer, we sat
buckled-in safely in a spot of orange porch light
close enough to hear the dusty bodies of moths
bumping against the glass of the lamp. You
asked me when I would be home
again. I still have no answer. Since then I’ve found
home in a small room in Brooklyn
with more books than I could count
or read, in a dark yard in the middle
of the early morning, in waiting.
Since then I have slept in the bends
of three sets of arms on beds
that don’t belong to me.

Published by: in Issue 2: Spring 2014, Volume 70

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