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POETRY by Ally R.
It Was Me
Andrew. I think about him, my first time meeting him. Doug. Man, if I knew Doug now. But I wouldn’t know him now, that’s the thing. I’m no longer traveling in that circle. I don’t seem to be traveling in any proverbial circles right now. Just this small one that is my daily life. But I am about to embark on expansion!
The prosecutor. The cops. I remember their faces. I wish I had known more words then. Accurate ones.
The tie man.
Ian from D Street and how scared I became.
Howard from long ago and all the cars that drove by that day.
I don’t think I’ll ever remember anything I ever said.
The drummer.
The one from down the street.
The first, second and third ones. After that they’re a blur.
The ones with guns when I imagined pain might be so much and so quick that I’d likely not feel it at all.
Irwin. And the snapping that took place there.
The one who liked to scream with ecstasy and madness in parking lots when he finally came. He’s the one I saw other ways after we talked about how impossible it would be to ever see each other other ways.
What was that one’s name I’m thinking of now? Donny. That was it.
The special place in my heart I still have for Craig.
And why do some from years apart get mixed up in my mind? Why do I see them in a space of time they don’t belong to?
How incredibly easy going and friendly I felt and I was. Happy.
And how angry I became. The feelings I knew could belong in no other category than homicidal. Yes I could have done it. Just about did.
The total helplessness over certain things.
The Englishman.
The surprise I’d feel when one would divulge that drug or another.
When exactly was it that I lost the fear?
The cab driver.
The cab drivers.
The Turk.
Ken. Now there’s a word packed with some ghastly feeling.
The day I felt my mind go in half like a snapping. Too bad I have yet to figure out how to put it back to its exact positioning.
All the times I slammed the door on life. And dead bolted it shut. Was it really this that I eventually wanted, or had I already been there/here?
The lying.
The doctors.
The Sister.
The Apartments.
The houses and the streets.
The actors and the directors.
The large bellied men. The small men.
The stitches in my hand.
The pink bra.
The black teddy.
The long red skirt with paisleys
on it.
The pink jacket I loved so much.
The sequin bras and costumes.
The ones who always called when it was party time.
The German.
The Greek restaurant owner.
The other restaurant owners.
The Iranian restaurant owner and running through the endless park at night full of trees.
Then the car and the wife.
The one from the Indy.
Thousands like them whose faces float in suspended animation somewhere in my existence. I’ll see a face from then and I wonder why I am seeing it now, or ever.
The ones I started to believe because no one else was telling me anything.
The brander.
The wrestler.
The ball player.
The soccer player.
The wheelchair man.
The amputee.
The egg shaped child-like man.
The deaf man where we talked through the machine.
The dwarf.
The ones from Pennsylvania.
The one with the antique kit.
The one who had been in the Olympics, portfolio in hand, who reminded me of someone I once knew and loved.
The basements.
The waiting.
The drivers.
The murderers.
The one with all those snakes.
The one early morning sitting on a swing in his yard as dawn broke, ducks at my feet.
The farmer.
The photographer of objects.
The 2 virgins.
The ones who made me work, and the one who bought me a rose.
The travels.
The journeys.
The planes.
The boats.
The toys in my purse.
The truck ride from North Van.
The immortality or else.
The games.
The lessons.
The boat painter.
The banker with the green pendant.
The students.
The veteran who got me in the end.
The senior citizens.
The deathbeds.
The gloves.
The children.
The drunks.
The poets.
Garth. That was his name. I was going to call him near the end but couldn’t find his number so I called the cops instead.
The pharmacist.
The widows.
The clubhouse.
The hotels and motels. The trailers.
The security men.
The names.
The rush.
The timing.
The broken glass after I shattered it all.
The pillow on fire.
The fireman.
The women haters and the women.
The watch and the bracelet.
The ones I don’t remember.
The snow.
The rain.
The wind.
The dogs.
The songs that take me to times from then.
“Sentimental Journey” and play it again and again and he did and he did.
“The road to hell”
“Paint it black”
“One of these days”
The money.
The credit cards.
The travelers cheques.
The rolls of quarters, loonies, dimes and nickels.
The pennies.
The bank machines.
The pleas.
The excuses.
The threats.
Helping that one write a letter to his son.
The one I told was right, that indeed he should kill himself.
The movies and the magazines.
The photographs.
The one who got a ride with me in the white van.
The blue Malibu and the car accident.
The codes.
The questions.
The cliches.
The chance encounters that were never supposed to happen. On the street. In the drug store. In 7-11. The cab ride.
That time in the liquor store. My heart ending up in my shoes.
Paul and all the loss that happened there. How it feels just to write his name down.
The exclamation.
The hardware store that was down the street.
The Flinstone skirt.
The one with the tripod.
The crates where they kept my shoe.
The million or so times I prayed please God just let him come now so I can go home. Don’t these people understand I have cats that need me at home? Please and I’ll never ask again.
And Lee. And Linda. And Terry. And Cheryl. I still think of Cheryl.
And Speedy.
And Steve.
And the loves of my life.
The words that I remember being spoken to me.
“Move your hand.”
“At least my parents loved me.”
“Can I put you on my leash and walk you downtown tomorrow?”
“I’ll cut you up and keep you in my cupboard,” or was it “I’ll chain you up and keep you in my cupboard”?
“It sounds like things are pretty out of control where you are.”
“You have to have hope, Al.”
“Please just tell me where you are. Don’t worry about anything. Your cats will be fine.”
And the words I know and can hear in my head but still can’t write them down, let alone think about them.
That December of the Christmas lights and everything after.