An Imperfect Phrase

in my dream I went up to some woman [a teacher] thinking she was Mrs. C and asking do you remember me? I was in your very first third grade class —she said no, I was confusing her with somebody else

I woke up & got out of bed looking for the notes [going immediately to the box on my dresser that contains old things old passport old letters from a high school friend old birthday cards one such repository I was half-asleep I must have been] that Mrs. C gave me needing to feel to see the love in them the blue glitter the impeccable cursive but they were not there [they were not in the box among the other old kept things]

I threw them away

I was ashamed

I was a girl in love with her young married schoolteacher [who may have known about it seen it and even this is the worst of it in her acceptable and sweet and normal way returned it returned love not in a sexual romantic or lesbian way not even remotely but in her way a newish teacher and a student so excited to be there with her in that classroom among her books and writing stories to show her there was so much I wanted needed that I did not know]

[ashamed] even, at the prospect that this woman liked me enough to use wet elmers glue & glitter on a whale-shaped piece of paper, to tell me (& my parents) just how wonderful I was

it’s like hm I have a problem

November wind

we weren’t ready

we were ready

we had coffee

I would like

a full length rain coat

then my legs

would not be

damp and in my dream

my house fell down

well not quite down, a wall collapsed

it made a ruin

my apartment, oversized and open-air like ancient Rome

in New York City

should we

pocket it

I said

I meant

our hands your hand in my hand

in my pocket

still the other

had to

carry

heavy bags

of apples carrots a potato

head of cabbage

we decided

not

to buy

the brussels sprouts stalk

it was

mm

a little

otherworldly

or just moldly

at the cut place

we were shattered

and the leaves came

I did

not look at your face

I wish

I had I closed my eyes

on Saturday,

a bagel in the sun

shared, everything

(with cream cheese)

turnip tops

the bitter greens

you left your watch

I put on pants

we parted ways

you went for groceries

I went home to sit in front of my computer

but not typing anything

a fear of too much happening

of happiness

I boiled water

had some tea

Cold: it feels unsafe

but so luxurious

you see, I mark the privilege of that statement

you know everything already so

I lie to you

This cold

it feels unsafe

I have this bowl of pasta though

I’ll be okay

it’s how the notebook helps

and M

big bites

of roasted

I can settle down

I’ll cross out words

add salt

with her

I should have said

and reading it I will

it’s like a butch thing I mean

not being bothered by the cold

being able that is to stand it

(furnace out)

feels pretty standard

the butch does not need heating to subsist

there is even I believe some literary evidence for this

a butch in an unheated room in a novel somewhere

oh

I’ll be fine

more salt more salt

look tug at my big sweater sleeve and see what happens

it’s October in my house

it’s nothing special

there’s no end and no beginning

I just made it up

I made the cauliflower and the cold

go warm your love

I’ll end it now

not love

looking at pictures of k. d. lang

and thinking wow she really is the “number one dyke” of all time

not only that she looks a lot like the professor you had dreams about

also Canadian (you think)

and listening to Chris, formerly known as Christine and the Queens

“doing my face with magic marker”

or that eyeliner—you did a mustache in fourth grade—it was your mom’s

a lot of sportswear

monochrome

and peanut butter

like an ordinary evening

watching Desert Hearts

not even watching Desert Hearts

is it okay?

hand on her stomach

"damn, I should have brought my hammer!”

porridge oats