By Beth Gilstrap
The possible way he may have chewed a bank pencil he pocketed, those nubs with no erasers, the drape of linen, how I imagine he wore nice loafers without socks even in a heat wave even in an ice storm even when gazing out a window thinking of his lover, how he must’ve rubbed his ballet feet, and the Russians threatening nuclear war, how he must’ve wondered if a flash would come, how thirty years later they had us cover our heads and get under our desks for what, to instill anxiety at a young age so we wouldn’t expect much out of life but I wonder, wonder about the steadiness of O’Hara’s hands, on window sills, around high ball glasses, exchanging pencils for smokes and my hands what good are they typing away as though nothing has changed though you are dead now not drunk, not standing with me knee-deep in the Atlantic your back to the shore, my back to Europe, how you said so calmly, without moving your feet, a slow click of the reel winding in, you might want to come closer to me and when I did and turned around, a nurse shark swam past like we weren’t in her domain, like we were pylons and my God how I wanted to touch her fins to see what tenderness lie there, to see what she saw down in the opaque, to retreat back into the open water so I wouldn’t have to watch you drink yourself to death.
Photo by Josh Withers
Mason Street 