a curious, but beautiful oddity

another poem- this one a pastiche on Frank O’Hara’s “The Day Lady Died”

“Split/spilt” I said aloud to myself alone six times
In a bed too big, as I looked at the clock numbers changing
and wondered if a) I am separated and divided or, maybe,
b) fractal facets of identity and miscellaneous other
‘personality’ pieces of me just fall out in overflow if -and
most definitely when- I tip past equilibrium

There were holes in my kicks and my feet dangled
off the edge of my comforter because my heart was not
in it enough to take off shoes that were still dirty
from our walks on THE STRAWBERRY BRIDGE
                                Our walks on a bridge named
for when a truck rode through running on gasoline and
hubris and ignorance, (just like our teenage hearts)
its load too much on the old structure, (just like our teenage hearts.)
created a burst of chaos that would float and flow for miles and front
the next the Gazette-Journal, as the weight on the wheels cracked
and splintered and split the wood planks below them
and the bed spilled and tipped into the TRUCKEE RIVER,
its entire delivery of sweet summer red produce

and Erica, it was for you only that my same feet dangled in memory of
over THE BRIDGE where we’d sit talk kiss and fall for each other,
though I’d walked it with Daniel and Leah and even with Jenna, yeah,
they were always toting key-hollowed apples they longed to kiss more than me
it is your feet I remember whenever mine hang off the bed
how they swung over icy water on the only good 14 February

and I said the words split and spilt and split and
spilt to myself feeling the notes that dropped from
music I played days ago finally catching up to my ears:
with you, grief was only ever one dyslexic mistake away 

c. Angela L 2012