“The lunatic is carried” by Sasha in her bedroom

Sunday December 22, 2019
5 minutes
Song of Myself
Walt Whitman

Friendship is a mercurial moving liquid thing, mostly
like honey or melting snow or a pool of wax.
Too much time goes by and suddenly I’m not sure who I am
in the gaze of you and what it means that you take so long
to respond. Use a butter knife to chip away. Try not to scratch
the table. I’ve known you for a long time now made even longer
by the particular years of the particular lives. Made even longer
by the months we didn’t speak and communicated only by Internet

morse code signals, the odd email, a fracture of pen-pal ship.

I’m growing tired of guessing if you’re angry, no need to be afraid
of anger but I am now, less than I used to be, but still.
I send a prayer to the pigeons that you’ll reach towards my
outstretched hand, that you’ll grab hold of my longest finger,

pulling yourself towards me, pulling yourself here.

The coven of beloveds, these women who know me
in ways that a man never could.