2/6/2018 Poetry by Elizabeth DuttonI Regret Nothing I want to die a violent death. No slipping away in dreamy darkness. I want to be mauled by a bear used for sustenance offered up for human sins I want to be shot bleed out on a sidewalk unrecognizable and terrifying I want to find myself in front of a streetcar those few seconds and my eyes meet the driver’s before I am swatted away like a fly Regret, they say, is known only to humans and rats. It’s the re-weeping, the what might have been. Dead ends. Fresh starts. If only. I wish. Oppenheimer figured out how to ruin the whole world. “I am become death.” He didn’t even have his own words for it. I’d rather ring the bell and know it can’t be unrung than watch it sit in silence, never knowing. With the Wind Chill it’s Twelve Below St. Mark’s and Second: wishing you here. We don’t have balmy nights; right now, we don’t have much at all. Us, dotted along the curve of the earth, we shoot up digital flares in hopes the other catches the wink, the nod. I’m seeing that everyone looks the same but you. I can’t find you anywhere. Stuyvesant and Third: humming a song. Ice coats the crosswalks and every step is a ginger dare between boot and pavement. I wonder what shoes you’re wearing at that moment and what spot holds you and those shoes at that moment and what things are making you smile at that moment. The wind threatens to shatter the very skin on my face. E. 14th and Broadway: waiting for a car. I’ve wandered long enough, both here and in the trite metaphor that is my life. I’ve made a decision to be confident, to believe the things you say and the actions that carry them there. I dreamt last night you told me my insecurities hurt your feelings and suddenly everything made sense. I’ve trained myself to be sad, it seems, and getting what I’ve always wanted feels a little like the satisfying hollow space in a freshly rung temple bell. The impact is over and all that’s left is flesh-rattling gorgeous vibration, and I’m convincing myself to stop missing the pain of sitting silent for years. Lessons Learned in Time and Space It’s a rough world; you’d better grow a shell. Something has to shield those raw nerves Those murmurations of imagined pleasures and weeping wounds. The sky may seem soft, each swaying leaf an effortless, velvet hello. But when we fall We fall full speed: Bare-legged on rough asphalt, Gravel embedded in our tender flesh Pockmarking knobbed knees and smooth cushion heels of palms, Skin giving way, crinoline crepe buckling Into tiny vellum accordion strips - After which the blood will bloom Mirror the burn core of the sunset The brightest red of the gaudiest dinner plate dahlia. The red deepens to wine The shell forms You’ll want to pick it off It will feel so good Bit by bit Little brown pieces Inside clear halos of fresh and living skin Others will do their best to break that human patina, too; You’ll be tempted. There is always a lure: the sinister or blasé or selfishly lonely or plain bored masquerading as the genuine. That is an eternal truth. Remember: Their actions are truths but their intentions are not. Leave it be. It’s going to happen again and again. You need that scar. You need that shell. The shell is all we’ll have left. ![]() Bio: Elizabeth Dutton is a California native. She was the recipient of the 2017 Morton Marcus Poetry Prize for “Native Daughter of the Golden West” and is the author of the novel Driftwood. She earned an M.Phil. in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow and a B.A. in English from the University of California, Davis. She is currently teaches English at a community college and at a federal prison (and is a staunch proponent of educational access and criminal justice reform). She’s working hard on her second novel (she promises) and a collection of poems. Follow her on Twitter @duttonwrites. Comments are closed.
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