Berkeley and Back

We were studying Chopin
when the plane flew over us,
and I imagined a spotted owl
quiet in the cavity of a redwood
until a chainsaw revved through.
And the air clotted with grit
and tremors, wide eyes and whispers
sweat, spittle and dander.

Our professor tossed his hair
scattered his papers from the podium
hollered at the high dome ceiling
of the theatre.

A good thing poisoned.

Summer came early, and Boston
saw the last of us. Back to waitressing
and masonry, Marlboros and Morphine.
Never a night warmer than each
spent on a porch in the stagnant bustle
of Manchester, jammed to the ends
of our skulls and fingertips.

I am sober now,
but this cold leather couch will not
give me a night away from the memory
of you, head over the edge of the bed
heaving bile into the garbage can
and as the sun rose, me
listening to Rhapsody in Blue
as it echoed eerily through the white
halls of the hospital, hoping the needle
wouldn’t hurt you or remind me
of us at our best,

nodding and itching in a fissure.