Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Tag Archive for ‘unfortunately I can’t love you’


Let me tell you something about your son.   He misses you. You may know that. I’ve no idea of consciousness besides my own.   He misses you so much he sees you alive maybe on an island where you washed up when your boat went down.   Maybe you crawled up from the detritus and dead cod and became king of some unmapped Viking island in the North Atlantic. […]

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Loving Rhonda

He called her Rhon-diful before the lovemaking because, well, she was Beau-tiful. No lightbulb went off. Maybe it was his good looks or, with heated and/or cooled cupholders, the Escalade. If he’d turned the corner a few times, she’d seen the blackboard ahead. That warning was like a chalked dead-body swinging from every streetlight and stop sign: Rhonda, Run Like a Rabbit. But faster. Of course, she didn’t see anything. […]

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Geisha Girl’s Night Out

I’m Rodin’s Thinker—Le Poète— beside you, full of scotch and silent curses on the steps of Columbia’s Low Library (between the columned facade). I am crying a Fare-You-Well brushstroke. You are dying, no longer the Juicy Fruit of any young boy’s eyes, no Blake’s Lily in my poems. You aren’t going to pirouette on your toes for me tonight, be anyone’s pop-bottle in the orchestra or balconies. Maybe you smell […]

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the new flat doesn’t smell like anything, not fresh paint, or cleaner, or previous tenants. never before has dust taken so long to settle. i’m trying to stay here, grounded in the scentless, untouched quiet.   but all this kind of moon ever does is throw its many-shadowed blue arms over the floor and, presently, my legs. it is the same moon. then there is the same brick. concrete before […]

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Approximation   The grandfather points out the witch at the market   who comes to buy mushrooms and stare at postcards.   She touches the sand dollar wind chimes, retracting   her hand as the dry bodies musically crash. She strokes   the sharp scales of fish lain in shaved ice, tries to discern   the words caught in their gills. She has forgotten the art of   existence, the […]

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Rain taps on the tin roof and I am in an unlit room not thinking of you.   The air is cold, not like winter; it feels like your arms when they’re not wrapped across my ribs, your hand curling next to my lips, catching my more quiet breaths.   1:24 AM – the clock sits on the table next to the right side of my bed, where you slept. […]

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I forget my reasons for staying, saying instead it’s what’s right–   wrong, again.   Again, I swallow it all: the anger, the regret. But it won’t stay down, as I do. It rises, likes the hot air you speak, corrodes the ceiling, takes my breath, leaves me gasping, choking on what you could not swallow.   The indignant, after all, have no room for their own mistakes.     […]

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