Read Online Letter from Brooklyn by Jacob Scheier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jacob Scheier
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death.
We were at that age when nobody died.
And now seems as good a time as any
to tell you my mother was very sick then,
that she had things growing inside her.
Though she wasnât going to die. Of course,
I didnât mention any of this while my slushy melted
and we listened to the sound a train makes
the moment after itâs out of earshot.
I said something like,
Thanks
,
but Iâll never learn
,
referring to bubble blowing. You could say
you were more mature than me
when we met sort of near a train station in a town
I mostly invented. Still, I recognized you
when we met in Toronto last week.
We were older, my mother
was long dead. I knew how to talk about sex
without talking about it. Though I donât
recall, now, what we spoke about. It was New Yearâs Eve
and we had been drinking. I was far from home
though I had been born only blocks away
in quite literally another century and was
not so much nursing another injured heart,
but giving the little thing hell
for once again being so unwise or unkind
and beginning to conclude
these were not different things. It was one of those thoughts
that stirs profound change. Though the only difference I could see
was that Iâd taken to carrying a small bottle of Red Label
in my shoulder bag. And so I told you
I had a bottle of Scotch, because
I didnât know how to say you were pretty
or that we had met before on a dock
and not all that far from a train station.
Or that I was ready, now,
to be taught how to make bubbles,
and my mother was not well. So I casually mentioned
the Red Label and how I would like to drink it with you.
We have known each other for three days.
We laugh about how I thought I was charming.
How you really just wanted a drink
and I was cute enough, so what the hell.
We laugh about this like it happened years ago.
For almost two days we only leave your bedroom
to refill the water glasses. But eventually
we make our way to your kitchen where through the window
a bird feeder in the shape of a house swings back and forth
and everything else is still and snow blankets the shack at the
end of the driveway
and we say how scared we would be in this house right now,
if we were alone. And this is the most honest thing I have said
in years. The only things you have to eat are cheese
and crackers, and theyâre delicious. I begin to feel
life intended to bring me to this moment. Even though
that means everything has been scripted,
including my mother being dead and me nearly
dying twice, once from a thing requiring surgery
and the other time from something I care not to mention.
Yes, I am alright, in this moment,
with all that life has planned for me. And just as accepting
that there might very well not be a plan. I canât help
saying we should stay for a while, though Iâm not sure
if I mean Toronto, since soon we will live an ocean apart,
or your kitchen. Itâs hard to imagine, I say, never
seeing you again. But already I can see
the kitchen window becoming soft,
the bird feeder slightly pixelated,
the snow blanket dimming, everything turning
to the way I will remember it.
SINGLE MANâS SONG
After Al Purdy
After he makes love to himself
the not quite middle-aged single man
listens to his sigh
sail to the end of the room
With pants around his ankles
and wearing a grey wool sweater
she called his rat suit
he peers at his cockâs sad pug head
and returns to the Kraft Dinner
he has been eating with a ladle
astonished and a little frightened
by his immense freedom
He does up his buckle
and walks out the door
taking pleasure
in not knowing the precise nature
of his fashion crime
only that heâs committed one
if not several
and that heâll get away
with them all
As he clashes down Queen Street
the oak leaves applaud
I am myself again
he sings into the wind
Not that she would have stopped him
from wearing that sweater
only told him
We were at that age when nobody died.
And now seems as good a time as any
to tell you my mother was very sick then,
that she had things growing inside her.
Though she wasnât going to die. Of course,
I didnât mention any of this while my slushy melted
and we listened to the sound a train makes
the moment after itâs out of earshot.
I said something like,
Thanks
,
but Iâll never learn
,
referring to bubble blowing. You could say
you were more mature than me
when we met sort of near a train station in a town
I mostly invented. Still, I recognized you
when we met in Toronto last week.
We were older, my mother
was long dead. I knew how to talk about sex
without talking about it. Though I donât
recall, now, what we spoke about. It was New Yearâs Eve
and we had been drinking. I was far from home
though I had been born only blocks away
in quite literally another century and was
not so much nursing another injured heart,
but giving the little thing hell
for once again being so unwise or unkind
and beginning to conclude
these were not different things. It was one of those thoughts
that stirs profound change. Though the only difference I could see
was that Iâd taken to carrying a small bottle of Red Label
in my shoulder bag. And so I told you
I had a bottle of Scotch, because
I didnât know how to say you were pretty
or that we had met before on a dock
and not all that far from a train station.
Or that I was ready, now,
to be taught how to make bubbles,
and my mother was not well. So I casually mentioned
the Red Label and how I would like to drink it with you.
We have known each other for three days.
We laugh about how I thought I was charming.
How you really just wanted a drink
and I was cute enough, so what the hell.
We laugh about this like it happened years ago.
For almost two days we only leave your bedroom
to refill the water glasses. But eventually
we make our way to your kitchen where through the window
a bird feeder in the shape of a house swings back and forth
and everything else is still and snow blankets the shack at the
end of the driveway
and we say how scared we would be in this house right now,
if we were alone. And this is the most honest thing I have said
in years. The only things you have to eat are cheese
and crackers, and theyâre delicious. I begin to feel
life intended to bring me to this moment. Even though
that means everything has been scripted,
including my mother being dead and me nearly
dying twice, once from a thing requiring surgery
and the other time from something I care not to mention.
Yes, I am alright, in this moment,
with all that life has planned for me. And just as accepting
that there might very well not be a plan. I canât help
saying we should stay for a while, though Iâm not sure
if I mean Toronto, since soon we will live an ocean apart,
or your kitchen. Itâs hard to imagine, I say, never
seeing you again. But already I can see
the kitchen window becoming soft,
the bird feeder slightly pixelated,
the snow blanket dimming, everything turning
to the way I will remember it.
SINGLE MANâS SONG
After Al Purdy
After he makes love to himself
the not quite middle-aged single man
listens to his sigh
sail to the end of the room
With pants around his ankles
and wearing a grey wool sweater
she called his rat suit
he peers at his cockâs sad pug head
and returns to the Kraft Dinner
he has been eating with a ladle
astonished and a little frightened
by his immense freedom
He does up his buckle
and walks out the door
taking pleasure
in not knowing the precise nature
of his fashion crime
only that heâs committed one
if not several
and that heâll get away
with them all
As he clashes down Queen Street
the oak leaves applaud
I am myself again
he sings into the wind
Not that she would have stopped him
from wearing that sweater
only told him
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