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| lisa feinstein |  | 1. Your name + Boston It is trite, how I dreamt of you, sleeping 12 hours to make it last longer, to find out where you were and how. We ran into each other at the old apartment, but it was a hotel, and your daughter I’m not even sure you have was beautiful, never uttering a word, as if she wasn’t sure I was there either. And your wife, the wife I’ve heard you have, she was gone. Just gone. Not in a sad way, but not there. And we talked as I helped my brother write a paper about the movie we were watching, which was you and me, the dream I was having, and the paper was about tragedy, and how the close ups of the wrinkle between your eyes was a motif the director borrowed from Hamlet— or maybe Psycho, and how that might be a reference to me. And in the shower, washing off that feeling, after searching your name + Boston on the internet, I decided we had gone for a walk after the movie, after erasing all mention of me from my brother’s paper, and we climbed to the top of the hill near the reservoir, where years ago I scraped my knee, and the scar from that fall took the shape of the wrinkle above your nose, and you reached for my wrist to pull us both in. 2. Geometry for Two I want to ride your bike around the apartment, gifted gears carving Kepler’s theories into hardwood floors. I see the teapot. It is a gift of fluidity and circumference, wary of that thing we call pi. A tangent, treads sewn into things, one of many globes, circles, orbs, tires and spheres that rotate and revolve. This home is a track, barely basic. Totally tricked out. An obstacle course crafted of geometry and algorithms we cannot understand— like the journal I kept as a child not knowing numbers are finite but the number of numbers infinite—and I tried to write down 0A each and every one, before I knew there were words that are all math; and relations that are barely more than theory… 3. Excuses There is enough change in the backseat of his car to buy one rose | |
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