Response to Litany of Words I’ll Not Say

James Bowden

There are many things I would like to ask you.
How have you been keeping yourself?
Where do you hold your hurt?
When is the last time you looked through
            the window and loved, just loved, that
            something exists out there?
Birds sometimes dive over my office building,
            perhaps peering inside, bold as the
            brave as the breaking dawn.
It’s not that I know what to say. Me,
            I know only of want. And when it comes to you,
            I am curious as the clouds.

A friend sent me Mary Oliver this morning.
A few days ago, I spent all day doing work
            and then dreamt of homework & hot girls
            in my class. Jennifer Aniston sat beside me
            and said her knees smelt better than mine. I
            don’t doubt it. They passed out a massive paper
            problem set and my friend remarked that it
            would dissolve well in milk.
I laughed myself wide awake. I am not good, I will not grovel and still
            life does present me these miniature mercies. I am
            I am grateful as the ground.

I want to share. I want to post pictures on
            Instagram and I’d like you to see them, smile.
I want to reach out and touch you, the soft
            and malleable where jaw meets neck,
            mysterious, alive against the pads of my fingers.
And I am scared to, too, and nervously
            gnaw at my nails.
And but I am hopeful, too, mostly,
            hand
                          on my
            heart
                          beating so
            hard
                          I can barely
            hear.

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Yay for alliteration, had some fun with this one, and Hemingway (see Snows of Kilimanjaro) pokes his head out at the last line to rescue me from running dry.