Fair’s Fair “For Book Lovers”

from: How I Came to Hate the Buddha
Maybe God is the impulse to laugh.
- Coleman Barks

I. Spring comes to her face

She roars, my X does and spring comes to her face with the morning sun, the way it did when we were young and waking up in each other’s eyes. Hoho, haha, that’s a good one.

Go ahead. Laugh, enjoy yourself. No skin off mine. It’s clinically proven, the medicinal powers of laughter and maybe there’s justice in that, and maybe a healing as well after what I put her through. A sure-fire way to let bygones be. Perhaps the last gift I can give her, the only one she’ll keep. For the first time since she walked out on me somewhere near the end of the last century, I make that woman laugh. In a time before time, it was my modus operandi. I could do it at will. It lubricated our relationship; wordplay slipping into foreplay but with a spontaneous and altruistic generosity that our lovemaking often lacked. At least that’s her version. All I know is it got so intense, the laughter, she would beg me to stop. That was before she dropped the Big One and left. Now it’s just silhouettes on the concrete, shadows burnt into the sidewalks of desire. Hiroshima Mon Amour. Good luck and goodnight.

Still, though it was not my intention, nor even my hope, laughter cups her elbow and gently turns her around to reach way back into our life together, before it went sour. Forever young she looks, almost a child again, the X holds out a sprig of affection as if she were offering a gift; a picture she’s drawn, a button or a crown of wildflowers. The way she did when I first wanted her, when certain things were still beyond price. All I can give in return is the laughter, a minimalist moment we share outside the cheap apartments and bone-white walls of blame we once inhabited; without the clutter of second-hand furniture and the bitter smell of last week’s stew drifting down the hall. Fresh air does wonders. The slate is clean, the ledger balanced. We’ve become strangers again, purified and perfect in our separate lives; confident enough to inhabit the same unselfconscious space, courageous enough to feel for each other again, but in an entirely safe and holy way. Without problems or contradictions like sex or money or children. It’s as if her laughter were a pavilion, shelter against any damage not yet done. Time heals, wounds close and, because they’re partly true, cliches never die. Love you forever. Maybe that’s carrying nostalgia a little too far. What we do is acknowledge each other the way strangers approaching a bridge from opposite directions might do. Respectfully. We make room, crossing the river without strong language or inhibition; with only the most tentative impulse to break into a run.

–Laurie Block

Coming to my Senses

I was the only one who could stop
myself, loving. I was rolling
along and growing old
as I’ve told you so many times
before I was shrinking inside
my skin, so transparent
with want that I pulled shut
the window, I was a glass
wall. That was me, my lips
mashed grotesque against the triple
pain, that was my breath
obliterating the view.
I was stretched. I was poisoned.
And then I forgave myself.

No. That’s not entirely true
I was given permission to step through
the fear and ceaseless chatter and call out
in a voice I’d never used before
to breathe deep and walk freely
whatever place on earth I chose
to set my foot. Permission to know
my skin the way the apple does
coming into fullness at the end
of the season. Now I can tell you
about the sweetness under the sun
declare the ripe round truth
that I’m beginning to speak with tenderness
I’m learning to close with love.

– Laurie Block