Not
quite what I meant
Jenny Kalahar
That’s
not quite what I meant, no
when I beckoned you over to my
picnic table
But I froze in my intentions, watching you try to clean
While you brushed at crumbs
scraping bits of white bird dung
with your torn fingernails and coat sleeve
I had meant to invite you to share my sandwich
to lessen the thinness of your
rawhide cheeks
if only half of ham-on-rye could
change:
purple dirty sweatshirt
torn men’s work pants
leaves crushed in bangs
sunken stomach
wild alien eyes
Into: a feast of comfort, health, security
television noise in the background of your
new apartment
laundry detergent
fresh-smelling sheets
bowl of fruit on the table
magazine subscriptions
lots of extra toilet paper
clothes in the closet with price-tags
still attached
sherbet in the freezer
messages on the phone machine
and books to read on the beach
where you’d meet him
You’re here every day and every night
less concerned now, more vacant
You’re almost gone inside
and may soon be replaced
I feel your exhaustion come off you in waves
Suddenly I shock us both and grab your hand
but can’t imagine a next move
Sorrow forces my eyes to my feet
and your eyes to the top of my head
Finally, you break free and whisper
“I don’t do that. Don’t ask.”
But that’s not what I meant
You are gone from the corner of my eye
replaced by a pigeon
He asks for my sandwich I had nearly forgotten
and I break off half, leaving it on
the table behind me:
Another amazing display of my
capacity to share.
Jenny Kalahar lives in