Copyright 2007 CKG
Le Livre Blanc
(a novel by Cocteau which, as I was reading, I imagined you were quietly reciting)
I could fall asleep
as you were reading,
whispering in French,
a language I half understand
your soul
it speaks a similar language,
one encrypted and beyond
my comprehension.
Matt was a French-Canadian University of Virginia student
upon whom I developed a very intense crush. He stood six feet three inches tall,
had chestnut hair, and piercing blue eyes. We
met online and, although we chatted frequently, went out only once, to dinner
at a restaurant called Rapture.
After the outing, he asked me into his apartment; however, I was very insecure at that stage in my life, so I declined the offer (a decision I regretted immeasurably in
hindsight). A few years after he
graduated, he returned to Charlottesville. It was then that Matt told me he had been
diagnosed with lymphoma. The
remainder of that night is the basis for this poem.
You said you were dying;
'Cancer', dirty little word,
Eating away at you,
Spreading then to me,
Feeding on the dreams
Of hours spent together,
Of long conversations
We would never share.
Beautiful strong boy
Crumbling down to dust,
Did you know how fond
I was of you in those days
Before you went away?
You could not have known
How I dreamt of you
Filling my days
With laughter and with love.
Is it too late to ask
One night with you now,
Before you journey
Where I cannot reach you?
You whisper 'yes',
But the word is without passion,
Though I am too desperate now
To care.
I lie down in your arms
And you slip inside me.
I shut my eyes and
Clench my teeth against the pain.
We drift apart,
While our bodies stay joined.
Childish dream
That we were ever really one.
This is the end?
Are we parting now?
Why did I think it would
Be different somehow?
The emptiness of this act
Has swallowed me,
And I lie alone in darkness,
Numb to everything
Except your indifference.
You leave,
But you are not gone;
You linger
In my every thought,
And in every thought
You are dying
And I cannot save you.
I write foolish things,
Silly letters,
Words that frustrate you
With their childishness.
Forgive me;
This is the last of my innocence
Pouring through the gashes,
The sieve,
Your dying has made of my heart.
Days pass;
Time and distance forge silence
Of the tenuous bond we shared.
I write, but there is no response;
I call, but the line is dead.
I think the worst,
That you have died,
And I begin to mourn your loss.
Then, I remember
A friend we once shared,
And I call him to ask
What had become of you.
Only last week
You helped him move;
Your strength is ironic,
In that you can lift a bed
But can’t write a letter
To tell me you yet live.
From afar, I had idolized Matt; he was athletic (on the University Crew team), handsome, and confident. The hero worship transformed what was a fuck to him into something mythical to me; this remark is supported a remark post-intercourse. I asked why it had never occurred prior to that night. His reply was, "You never asked", indicating that he would not have deigned to sleep with me had I not requested it. Then, in almost the same breath, he apologized for being out of shape because of chemotherapy.
He had to tear me down to let me near him. I had to be wounded or mamed to exist in his eyes. Never would I be tolerated as an equal.
He couldn't have known how I worshipped him, of how I cared nothing for the appearance of his body. All that mattered was that for the first, and perhaps last, time I was near him. I never wanted him to leave; I wanted to take him in my arms and to stand by him in his fight against cancer. I couldn't grasp that he was a man who needed to stare down mortality and to emerge either victorious or defeated solely on the basis of his own inner strength.
Five years later, with very little communication between us since 2002, Matt e-mailed and said he was returning to Charlottesville for a wedding. I was overjoyed, replying that I still lived in the same apartment and would love to see him. That weekend, with each errand I ran, I left my itinerary, leaving a note and pen for Matt to respond in case we missed one another. By Sunday night with no sign of him, I could only assume he hadn't been able to make the trip. I e-mailed a few days later and asked if something had occurred that had made him cancel the trip; he replied that the trip had been made, but visiting me had been impossible.
Let me near and wound me. Never shall it occur again.
It Lingers
Last night, I dreamt
That you had
Returned,
And there was
No sickness,
No cancer,
No world
Beyond
Our intimacy.
We made love,
And afterwards
I was smiling
As you held me
In your arms.
Memory of that
Contentment
Has haunted me
All this day
And lingers now,
Stronger,
Though sadder,
Into
the night.
Pour
yourself inside me;
I
don’t care the cost;
Just
leave a reminder
That
we once lived
As
one.