Unmarried Poets

“Poets are never married,” she said sitting next to me in her hippie-length skirt with bells that jingled and jangled, soft and sexy like her voice.

 

“Just look at them. They’re all single.”

 

And it was true, I saw as I sat with her in the coffee shop, my blue work jeans worn white and frayed and common.

 

They were all single.

 

I watched them talking, and I never understood their meanings, like the way I used to feel as a boy when Grandma would talk. When she’d say that she was afraid of her hip sometimes, but I couldn’t ever think why Grandma should be afraid of her hip.

 

It took me years to know she was just afraid to die.

 

I couldn’t understand what these people meant, either.

 

“The palm tree and my heart.”

 

“Your wine glass. Your round a*s.”

 

“The day the phone didn’t ring.”

 

And they were all so proud of themselves, the unmarried poets, of their words and feelings and open declarations of convoluted somethings.

 

And probably, I guessed, of how they weren’t like me.

 

She held my hand, tickling my palm with her fingers like springtime leaves, and I squeezed back.

 

Then it was her turn.

 

She walked up to the mic to read her poetry.

 

It was long and lazy, like the cold lake behind Grandpa’s farm that runs and laps the bank and gets away as soon as you touch it.

 

I listened, straining to make some sense of the words. Her feelings. Some of them, she announced, about me.

 

Images of sweaty nights, of easy walks, of furious fights, of makeup talks.

 

She spoke in code about our years together. Every day, every endless night. She shared the length of our love, packed up like baggage into five overfilled poems.

 

“Poets are never married,” she informed the group, and they laughed. But I sat still, my face burning like the hot grass on a summer, sun-scorched meadow. I stuffed my rough hands into the tight pockets of my colorless jeans.

 

“It’s in our nature to love, but not forever,” another shouted, and they all agreed. It was an inside joke. Or were they making fun of me?

 

She agreed.

 

There was something else stuffed into my pocket. I fingered it carefully as I listened to them laugh.

 

The round, smooth sides. The one jagged piece. It was so cold, even sitting there in the warmth of my pocket.

 

Twenty-three people, and me all alone. Had she been mine when she had brushed her springtime fingers against my palm? Had she ever been mine at all?

 

“Just look at us,” she said to the group. “We’re all single.”

 

A cheer went up.

 

I stood up.

 

“Are you leaving?” She said, “I’m going to read one more thing.”

 

And I walked outside. With the ring.

Reviews

[Dave]

Wonderful story! Great job of revealing the story-teller's dilemma bit-by-bit and then topping it all off with a glimpse at what could have been.

[Doug]

Aw, poor Mr. Hard Worker. He married a poet. It was well written. The part that I found ironic was that any time the blue collared worker was talking he was more poetic than the poets. The quotes from the poets weren't nearly as good. I liked the piece though. I'll have to check out your other poem now.

[Raef C. Boylan]

I really enjoyed this; the end was kind of sorrowful but it chimed perfectly with the rest of the piece, and added extra meaning to the narrator's reflections beforehand.
The pace and tone are great; it's not rushed and not too slow, just builds up nicely.
Some great language and imagery; your narrator comments on how a lot of the poets' attempts at 'profound' statements don't work, and then intersplices these thoughts with images that do work. he's no hypocrite...yay.
Very believable setting and characters.

Overall, a great write. Thanks for posting it.
Thanks for your review of my piece.

[S.E. Conway]

so sad.. but with a point to it. i love it ^.^ can't wait to read more of your work!