Perhaps We Amount to NothingA Poem by Matthew CloughYou
are an artist, or
at least you were once, in
the high school days. You
bent thin wire into lions, sketched
an eye draped in shadow, even
did a portrait of me: my
arms hugging my knees tucked
against my chest and
a lopsided grin below my ears, natural
and relaxed.
I
was a poet, or
at least I tried to be. I
wrote about lonely twilights, pianos
and hopes of golden exorbitance, but
mostly about you, my
majestic muse, a beautiful soul beneath
thickets of prickly brambles. I
just wanted to touch you. But
my words were too fragile; I
pricked my fingers every time.
I
withdrew into myself during
those late spring months. I
wanted my thoughts to be more than
just hollow bells to you, fuller
than forgotten pangs to the ear. You should make
art, you
said one
night among pillows, sheets, and stars. I can’t draw, I
replied, my
fingers tracing your lips. Just try.
The
following night I picked up a pen and
some yellow off-brand Post-Its. I
stuck six together in diagonal randomness and
scribbled some mountains, cascading
across those planes. Something
cold, probably in Russia. Black,
bitter wind spiraling in the air, loops
of freehand emptiness. I
called it Perhaps We Amount to Nothing, and
shoved it in a broken dresser drawer.
I
found one piece of it yesterday, on
a return weekend from college, a
tiny sheet of squiggly lines with
lint and dirt clinging to expired adhesive. I
crumpled it slowly in my calloused palm. At
two AM I collapsed on the couch and
called you. We talked for an hour, our
voices drowning in static. It’s been an
exhausting day, I said. I miss you, too, was
the reply.
So
I hung up and fell asleep, and
all I saw in my dreams were
the snowy slopes, the
icy night clouds, and
myself, standing at the summit. © 2014 Matthew Clough |
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