This Began With “I Miss You”

This began with “I miss you”
nestled deep in the liver of pretty words
dancing illusionary around platitudes of nostalgia
the way lynchings and pogroms and Jim Crow
take a back seat when waxing poetic about the Roaring 20s

this began Art Deco
all smooth lines and steel rising above New York City

when Chrysler and Empire State vied for the heavens

when we could still see heaven

but this revisionist history
ignores begging in breadlines for something warm at night
the amputees returning home from the trenches
missing limbs from land mines

you were the FLASH! BANG! landmine
ripping smiles from this face
leaving me to sweat you out on PTSD nights
wondering if you were coming home to finish me off

you are my thousand-yard stare

you are the war story of crashing hips and desert stories
I would tell the neighbors
when they asked about the scars too visible to conceal

this began “I miss you,”
because I can still remember the beginning
when butterflies fluttered in the gut portending the future
back before we learned to fuck the way movie stars taught us:
well lit, in focus, every inch of skin captured center frame,
each retelling revealing more secrets than the last
until I could quote your inches from exposition to ending credits
even now, I can chart your body, knee to nape, lip to clit
like a family farm a man spent 90 years
getting ready to be buried in

your blustering winds do not make you a hurricane
you are not Salamis 
nor Trafalgar
and this is no “I miss you” poem

because I do not miss you

no one misses fatal car accidents
we were a slow-motion rollover
ejecting victims through the windshield face-first

after you found me inhabiting the suburbs of your heart
fostering your broken parts like they were my own children
you began pushing me out one brutal word at a time
no refugee misses the ethnic cleansing
that leaves them in the wilderness

you left me in the wilderness
of this place
in my own chest
surrounded by strange tongues that speak unfamiliar words
like “lover” and “future”
I had found a home in the forever changing definitions of “us”
never expecting to be the only one to remember it that way

you were the memory

I was the action

you were the story

I was the author

but you lit the manuscript on fire
drained the blood from all of my inkwells
broke pens like fingers
and cut the voice from my throat
leaving me to point at strangers
mouth useless words,
knowing they do not understand

you are breathtaking,

but that is no compliment

you hover between regret and unfortunate accident
haunting the stairwells of this cold, empty house
the image of a girl I can see in the television static
around 2 a.m. between the whiskey and the dawn
a tree in winter that I’m not certain is dead or dormant

this began “I miss you,”
this will end with, “I survived you”but we are still somewhere else

a wounded diver in shark-infested waters
and I cannot see the shore

we are the firing squad bullet between rifle and

let justice be done

a hand grenade frozen beautiful in a starburst
before shrapnel turns a dreamer
into a dying, wounded animal

"In the Blood" by Christopher Fox Graham

"In the Blood"

by Christopher Fox Graham

Fair warning,
you die first.

"...written with his own blood" by Janina-Photography

I know, you’re thinking that with all my whiskey nights
I’d cease the fight first
but fate plays dice —
my eulogy isn’t profound, but between us
it’s the only poem worth all the blood I’ve verbalized
my heart beats after yours
because I never could imagine the world without you
so you had to show me the hard way
even this old, I’m still chasing you
like I did at the beginning

— 10 —

Our daughters visit one by one
find me holding one hand
while a machine holds the other
beeping,
beeping,
beeping
with clockwork regularity
counting down the heartbeats you have left —
I read you 60 years of blood poured into poems
“The Peach” still makes you laugh

— 9 —

We send our son a message to the colony on Mars
he can never visit,
when he boarded the shuttle
we knew it was a one way trip
I tell him to hold his sons tonight
gaze across the terrain
and remember that the red in his blood
is deeper and darker
binding him forever to home

— 8 —
On the first day of our retirement
we burn all your business cards
and all my button-down white shirts —
we make love in the kitchen like horny teenagers
I later find your red underwear in the sink —
the pasta boils over and burns the pot
so we feed it to the neighbors’ dog
you hate the neighbors
but like the dog

— 7 —
after my wedding toast,
I swing dance with our youngest daughter at the reception
because I save all my slow dances for you
rest my hand in the small of your back
kiss your crimson lips like the first time
when we get to our empty nest,
we split a bottle of Jameson
and wake cuddling each other’s pounding hangovers

— 6 —
you get almost leave me three times
the first two are admittedly my fault —
I don’t learn about the third until years later
when your reasons have faded to such silliness
you laugh when you tell me why
I buy red roses for a month anyway

— 5 —
in the Red Chair Hotel lounge in Prague
we hold hands
not saying a word
and for an hour
no one else enters
that was the moment —
the one I’d hold onto
when asked,
“what was the best day of your life?”

— 4 —
By the last one, you’re a pro —
but you leave my arm bruised
when our first child is born
one fingernail drew blood
and the scar is my joy
that I became a father

— 3 —
the proposal was unexpected
I stood on the stage
performing a poem you’d heard before
but you noticed two lines changed
and midway through, a new stanza flipped the meaning
before I dropped to a knee and asked
the time penalty cost me points
and the other poets called you a “prop”
but we got four 10s and a red heart
when you said "yes"

— 2 —
I apologize for our third date
everything goes wrong
the restaurant is terrible
you kiss me so deep I get hiccups
the sex is sloppy
I cut my hand changing the flat tire
so the first time you say it
I am staring at the bloody bandage
wondering about stitches
so I have to ask, “what do you say?!”

— 1 —
I small talk
to mask my skipping heart
although I can’t tell if you like me
when you finally ask me out
blood rushes from my fingers and toes
leaving me warmly cold

but all the way home
I think how the first poem
should start at the end
and work backward
so the only mistake I’ll ever regret
was waiting so long to begin