First Mate

for Rhea

The first thing I saw was her crazy patterned pants

as she turned to meet me.

Even after we’ve spent years exploring every

nook and cranny of this crazy life together, 

I know I’ll always remember that first night. 

I’m careful with the word always

because there’s danger in forever,

but I’m here to say that when her eyes met mine 

it felt like the first breath above water after a dive.

She has the sort of kind soul that surges up

through her spine to be seen glowing

through the pores of her face.

As we stood peering through thin air at the beaming

light of the moon’s rakish grin, her eyes seemed to whisper,

“the world is much too stunning for only one lifetime.”

 And I didn’t know what to say so I said,

“would you like some tea?”

In the morning we sat at the kitchen table

and spoke of small things because the big things

couldn’t fit through our jaws that day.

We caught the bus to New York City,

and I spent hours listening to the waves of her

voice swell over me as we swapped stories

about the many tumbling injuries of childhood.

She said that some left scars and some

she stitched where only she would ever see them.

I felt the world shrink to those two bus seats

and as the tacky printed fabric danced on the edges

of my vision I wished for days and weeks and years

to hear all the stories she’s always needed to tell.

Dusk descended like a dense embrace of the heavens

and I tried to arrange my face into a scribbled

Post-it note reminder I could stick to my collarbone

that said “I’m listening, I’m here, tell me all about it.”

When we found ourselves in Grand Central I wanted

to say: you make me feel grand - like the subway roaring past,

like I’m strong enough to carry everyone forward to the places

they need to be, like my tracks are mapped, like you’ll ignore

all my gathered years of dirt and grime and the rats gnawing

on my littered heart because I am constant and useful and necessary.

But I was too drunk to say that, so I threw my tipsy arms

around her shoulders and said, “let’s be best fuckin’ friends forever.”

We boarded the F train bound for Queens and sat

watching a one-eyed hobo guzzle his rum with such

gusto and I thought, “that man deserves a better story than

sailing the subways.”

As you get older, the stories get messier,

and maybe that’s why I can’t stop telling them.

Like this one, and how I knew I loved this girl because

she’s the kind o’ character that always makes me

want to crack the book down its spine and wade

inside to join her, even after the first chapter

before I even know where her voyage is headed.

We got marooned at 3 am, locked out, armed only

with two colt 45s, so we tacked our sails, cut our losses,

raided a stranger’s stoop and swilled our malt liquor, 

leaning and laughing, pitching hard to starboard 

on the night’s rolling spontaneous sea.

Later, we stood on a balcony, plundering

the skyline under the false sunrise of the city’s glow,

and I felt my ribcage cracking open, singing,

like an empty treasure chest finally being filled.

In the morning, as we crossed the street to catch the bus,

her feet stomped boldly through puddles, 

sending drops of water soaring like silverfish. 

We slept the whole ride home,

my new first mate and me, 

and I dreamt of pavement, pirates, and peace.

slam poem, 2013