Greenpoint, Scarlatti, Frazier discussed on The Slowdown
I have always been fascinated by ex lovers and their role in my life now. My boyfriend from college and I are still friends. My two high school boyfriends and I are friendly, though, a little distant. But as the years go by, there are some exes I'd rather not run into, and a few, I'd like to see. What is it about some people? The ones to whom were always somewhat connected. A few months ago, I was briefly in New York, and one of the first people I ran into outside the pencil factory in greenpoint was an ex-boyfriend of mine from over 15 years ago. He was still kind, funny and handsome. We laughed, and his beautiful young companion, took a group photo of us outside on the sidewalk. He didn't stay for a drink. But even the short ketchup was, what's the word? Sweet. My husband was with me, and he and my ex talked briefly about music and the pandemic and how different everything was. And also the same. It was just good to know we were all safe and okay. I suppose that's the thing about exes. Time goes on, but the moment you share together, that has stopped, stayed frozen, like a film still, from a movie. In today's gorgeous poem we see an achingly true depiction of the moment when two old lovers meet again. After the fire, by Gregory, Frazier. I heard you were going to Italy. He said, you heard correct? She said, you finally did it. He said, I'm happy for you. I'm happy for myself. She said one of scarlatti sonatas poured through the wide French doors, and a toast went up to the hosts, who announced they had been summoned by the spirits to throw the little soiree. Sometimes he said, I feel so. I don't know. Droopy. When I think of us, like a glove, he said, on a hand without fingers. Funny, she said, I sometimes feel like the hand. Wind moved like memory through a stand of pines, and then, as though a great umbrella sprang open. It was night. He looked absently off the veranda, and thought of days that followed her exit, stretched on end, uniform and blank, like pavement slabs. Do you miss me? He said? Do you miss me? She said? I missed the self I was with you. He said. His face was a letter torn to pieces and taped together. She trembled, like the wire inside a lightbulb. Do you remember, she said, when you told me, poetry is for those who walk in their sleep. Do you remember, he said, when you called a self portrait a canvas you paint yourself out of. She let slip a trickle of laughter, then shut the tap. It was getting late. Soon the guess would find and vanish into their coats. This life is just the clang of a bell he said. They kept quiet then, for what seemed like a very long while. Venice, he asked, at last Florence, Rome, none of these, she said, I'm off to a tiny borgo in the umbrian hills called posting llano. He squinted for a moment. After the fire, he said. So the brochure said, she said..