They say you live in an ivory tower,
that your trailer home is a castle
What they don't seem to realize
is how difficult it can get
manning the battlements,
womaning the armory,
unmanning the sappers
We are not wired to like words
with too many meanings all at once:
a country or a continent,
a hope or a threat,
an immigrant's dream,
an exile's only choice,
a native's taken-for-granted
drudgery
We prefer pigeon holes,
we like the slate wiped clean,
compulsively closing cupboards
and closets,
wiping off spilled milk,
complaining of the mysterious way
our dwellings become cluttered
We try and try,
but still there are specks of blood
on the bathroom floor
The microwave is haunted
We listen to anything:
the bed creaking on the other side
of the bedroom wall,
the chime of the washing machine,
the full-out shudders
of the air-conditioning unit,
cats and cars
anything to distract
from the pain and misery
of plentiful food and solitude,
of a conscience burdened
by nothing worse than shoplifting
How kind of them,
our so-called friends
to describe our mutual attraction
as a car crash:
inevitable, fascinating, and gruesome
I think you match me
I like the way your body fits mine
I even don't mind your using
the red tulips on the kitchen table
as ashtrays
Sometimes there is simply no explanation
for the fallout
You walk;
a black car stops at the next corner,
two men drag a third one inside,
and drive off.
You keep walking;
on the newsstand is pillage and rape
and ecological disaster.
The very thought of switching on the TV
when you get home is cringe-inducing.
What do you do?
What will you say?
You love someone and he loves you,
or at least he acts like he does;
maybe you have a child or a pet
who depend on you;
you're good at what you do.
These are all valid reasons
and solid excuses.
You teach yourself not to care
more than you abstractly know you should,
but still the guilt
and the sense of unfulfilled responsibility
sometimes give you bad dreams.
Sometimes you pray;
you take a pill or a stiff drink;
when you get your lover's answering machine,
you stick a finger inside yourself and chant,
Please, please, don't let it be me.
You walk from day to day;
you love your lover and hope he loves you back,
you walk your dog, put your child to bed,
go to work, read books,
buy flowers and coffee,
you're even thinking of going away somewhere
for your next vacation.
You teach yourself all the time
not to let either complacence or hope win out.
You teach yourself to take pleasure
in trivialities you'd be ashamed to mention
out loud.
Ten empty bottles on the sideboard
red or green
or honestly transparent
Nine headaches in the morning
that last bottle just killed the party
But hey, it was on sale
Buy nine, get tenth one for free
There used to be eight countries in the area
but one's been bombed
back into the proverbial Stone Age
so now there might as well be seven
Wise up, little boy
There are dragons on the road
There are buses in the sky
but who else sees them?
There are six peas in a pod
There are five bullets in a clip,
plus one in the barrel
They are birthing four-legged babies
in test tubes
They are picking three-leafed clovers
for your dinner
Pick a lover – when there's two of you,
that's safety in numbers
Oh look – there's only one
shame trial on TV tonight
Wise up, little girl
Turn off the TV
go hide under your blanket:
what better protection do you hope for?
Zoë Gabriel is from Europe, has lived in Europe and Asia, and can be located in Maryland at the moment. She is fluent in two languages and can find her way through about half a dozen more. She loves books and brightly colored knee-socks, and consumes too much salt on a daily basis.