lexi rudnitsky | deepest remains

6 12 2007


Poetry Dispatch No. 176 | July 24, 2007

What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics
Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?
Walt Whitman

Deepest Remains by Lexi Rudnitsky


In my early years, I spoke in many languages.
Then I grew quiet.
(This is not an obituary.)
Some of my dreams faded, if they could count as dreams.
I was a good friend, though I mostly called when there was no one else.
I was a poet, though I only wrote when there was nothing else. (That was often enough.)


I was truly in love once, at least as I remember it.

A boy from another country said,
I intend to go alone,
which was not what I intended.

I learned to sleep in a hammock, my body sagging to the floor.

I bathed in the river fully clothed:
the cotton clung, translucent. (A man watched from the outer banks.)

I spent the night on an ancient pyramid, monkeys shrieking through the trees.

I bribed a guard to leave me alone, and there was no one left to tell.


A young man skipped ahead on the trail.
I must have said, Wait.
(Years passed.)
How could I say goodbye?

I sealed leftovers in ziplock bags;
I wore a flowered bathrobe.

I began to listen to books on tape, especially biography.
(This is not an obituary.)

There was a jungle-book ending:
strands of dirty-blond light shone through the spreading palms.




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