True Love by Richard Siken

Equally afraid of being alone or being touched, my fears cancelled each other out.

True Love

by Richard Siken¹

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A dog bites down on a stick of dynamite and takes off running. They are going to explode together. Imagine: making someone feel like that, making them lose their mind like that. At the bars, I used a fake name. I was as blurry and undefinable as everyone else. Equally afraid of being alone or being touched, my fears cancelled each other out. Pure ambivalence. It made me dangerous. Still, we do what we can. The barn dance was a yawn. The barn dance caller told us how to move, so it wasn’t that much fun. We got out, quick as a lamb’s tail. Two shakes. One, two. I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll say this: Something bright, then holes. Beauty pours in. Open your heart then. And if you find yourself caught under the sycamore trees in a sudden rain, drenched and thunderstruck—which would be fine—made breathless by the simplest thing, say yes. Yes, anything you. Love, love. It isn’t a word, it’s the sound a pebble makes. Some swerve to pass, some drink to win, some watch while the man strays, singing, into the ditch. Be glad that you have something to say, someone to say it to, and that you can say it until you are all worn out. A long time ago, maybe not so long, I knew a man who was slippery and morally flexible. I loved him. Sure, loved him. It lasted exactly as long as it was supposed to. I propose there is a man somewhere, chalk-faced in evening light, traveling furiously toward you—and the sun’s going down, and his windows are open, and everything’s coming over the horizon on cue. If you haven’t started preparing yourself, I strongly suggest you do. How long will it last? It’s hard to say. The captain is always silent after the ship goes down. It’s a tragedy, like everything, but the sea is only waist deep. I insist this is a lullaby.

1. First published in BODY