I could never imagine the ways that curses would lay on me. Heavy blankets, piled higher and denser every year. In trying to turn, you'll probably strain your neck or dislocate your knee.
—Drink?
No and yes. Sweat the toxins out in the leaden bed, but then you'll never want to lay down again. Fresh yeast skins will tear, releasing the bright smell that makes your eyes burn.
—You said, curses?
Oh over and over since I turned 12. Something unhappy in all my remaining time, comes from the line of unhappier women -my mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, great-great. How was it these births kept happening? The dish ran away, the cow jumped over the moon. We all were aspirational -desirous of something bigger that we could never articulate.
—And?
And so -followed the curve of the cattle wall, down the chute, up the ladder to the stock-yard hammer: they all did this, my mothers before me. Which is how we kept poisoning the next, you see?
—You lost me.
One young love of mine, very Tennessee Williams in his way; pale, effeminate, dreamy. But stuck up to his thin neck in Oedipal torpor. He was as romantic as a Polish prince, destined to die by some random bullet. At least, that's how I called it -maybe he still lives, but likely damaged by drugs. I left him for a dorm room.
—He cursed you for having dreams.
Free-floating rancor surged from me, according to the philosopher, but he could make it sharper; more meaningful. I loved him for selecting me, chosen to share a cigarette, then a bed with and permission to listen to the deepest thoughts; to hide away with his genius; to turn away from others and their puerile attentions. I crossed a wire-wrapped boundary marker I thought was an embrace.
—He cursed you for having trust.
Another lover, I put myself above. At first I adored his sad comic emotions. Then I felt contempt for his depressions and his anger. His poet's delicacy was easy to mock, but in turning to acid one burns away feeling.
—He cursed you for having pride.
There was a tender musician who couldn't speak, and his muteness attracted me. I loved his eyes. I kept him in a box and then couldn't stand the silence.
—He cursed you for having focus.
My secret love was totally a sham. We ate and drank and fucked and plotted to live our lives as celebrities; as icons; as gods. He and I burned out, lacking oxygen and status.
—He cursed you for having a good time.
Now I ride a bus in my dreams all my ex something or others are in the bus too. It's not packed,
but 28 people (give or take)...
—You might exaggerate.
Most of whom don't know each other, and most all of whom do not enjoy my company --
we must bump along trying not to catch each other's eyes or accidentally slide over onto another person (it's an old Blue Bird type school bus, with the green vinylized bench seats).
—Where are you going?
I feel like it's my fault but what can i do or say? -how else does a 15 year old junior high school kid with the beginning stages of cystic acne, who I obsessed about for 2 years, show up on the same bus as the 23 year old shuttle driver from Alabama who gave me warts? Riding with each other. Ridden until someone ends the curse.
—Our time is up.
