Friends, the history
of darkness begins
like this—an individual chameleon
changing color to hide
from his wife’s
lecturing. The unique sound of a scale
being played
on a woodwind
to ensure
this
is not
a piece of music forgotten
or eliminated.
The darkness of darkness
beginning the basement, the
the way we compartmentalize the
first time I wiped lip gloss
from your cheek,
the opening of a mouth
when the question
about you
and me
comes out.
The history
of darkness begins
like this:
our
teenage years, a ride
on an unfamiliar subway line, the hubris
of a city skyline, the history of darkness begins
with darkness, with
one babe crying
on the subway because the guy she was seeing
is a dick, that one babe is crying
behind dark glasses and everyone
is not watching the history of darkness begins with one babe
and she is crying and you are the reason so how
does that make you feel. The history
of sadness begins and gets off
one exit too soon, is expanded
like a sponge in water within
the space of transition, followed
by the process of learning
streets in an unwanted city, after being
the 8th plane in line
on the runway during
a 2-hour delay, with perfect weather where you are
and unknown weather where you are going.
D is for Darth
Death offered himself to me
politely Amy I won’t lie I like you
in an Irish pub
Usually it’s comedians or poets raised by wolves
who fart their way toward me
offering themselves
thus requiring many conversations
with my friends
to call heads or tails in the air
to see the fun house mirrors
warp good to bad
or green to red
New York I love you
But the pit is turning back to fruit
turns sunfire into the blue on snow
Calling the kettle up ring ring ring ring
The future looking different
when I’m not drunk every yesterday
Putting V to D
Dear
New
York
you
just witnessed
a
break-up
on
the
subway.
There are small ways
to be cruel
to each other:
goodbye
kisses that land
only half
on the lips the way
space
opens
within space
the way nothing
is the same even when
it’s the same two
people walking the same
two blocks holding
the same
two hands.
biography
AMY LAWLESS is the author of two collections of poetry: My Dead (Octopus Books, 2013) and Noctis Licentia (Black Maze Books, 2008). She was a 2011 New York Foundation for the Arts poetry fellow. Some of her prose has recently appeared in BOMBlog and HTMLGIANT. She teaches at Rutgers University in New Brunswick and lives in Manhattan.
ANGELA VERONICA WONG is the author of how to survive a hotel fire (Coconut Books 2012). Her collaborative poems with Amy Lawless have appeared in several journals including Ping*Pong and The Common, and will be anthologized in The Best American Poetry 2013. She is on the Internet at www.angelaveronicawong.com.