Blue Note
In January, I got a tempestuous goldfish, 1/2 out of love, the
scavenging kind, seeking tethering, 1/2 out of wanting to see
which of us would outlast the other. I said: I am ready.
The sea & her constituents, she always tests me,
brings hope out of me with delicate, many-fingered hands. And
for a tick, I am one with every strident note of my soul: yes
fabled witch yes werewolf yes illustrious thief, yes:
I have lit a match, this match has lit me. If I can take
on the world time and again, what is a webbed challenge?
And yet I know about the pucker, and the disappointment
that always follows, know forty-six different ways
to crack the surface of a heart. Always, I am ready.
The goldfish’s leaving was a proof and a taunt.
How does anyone own anything, in this day and age?
How does anyone own and owe oneself?
Blue note, pink cloud, grey sky, pyrrhic victory;
misery strips itself of any and all reward, and I have
taken it on, time and again — what is a webbed challenge?
In other words I wasn’t born from yesterday’s rain, to be
suddenly wanting the world to cradle me tender. This
many-fingered kind of love, it does not balance, does not
fortify. I’ve figured I do better where my body slips and sinks.
1/2 out of love, 1/2 out of wanting to see is no way to
live a life: already knew that then. But I just want
there to be still the briny twang of black Moroccan
olives to distract a joyless mouth, dry rice bowls
in which restless fingers comb through rest, steel
guitar strings that whine when you brush them,
the lull of Aznavour on a rainy day, a story worn out
between flicking tome pages, lush embrace of
mother’s incense powder. Not much, not much I’m
asking for. I am ready. I want Prometheus to feature
in my lines and dreams, want him to lend me some of
his prowess, dig up from me the fire and give it back
to me mended, restorative. I am ready. I want to be
near good things, near quiet things, I want to be near
the water. The gaping lonely will never go away. I
already knew that then, won’t start to unlearn this
now. Maybe next time the goldfish could be a person.
Maybe next time it will be full love, and full
wanting to see. Maybe next time I will take on the world,
and say yes, I am ready, and think and think and mean it.
In January, I got a tempestuous goldfish, 1/2 out of love, the
scavenging kind, seeking tethering, 1/2 out of wanting to see
which of us would outlast the other. I said: I am ready.
The sea & her constituents, she always tests me,
brings hope out of me with delicate, many-fingered hands. And
for a tick, I am one with every strident note of my soul: yes
fabled witch yes werewolf yes illustrious thief, yes:
I have lit a match, this match has lit me. If I can take
on the world time and again, what is a webbed challenge?
And yet I know about the pucker, and the disappointment
that always follows, know forty-six different ways
to crack the surface of a heart. Always, I am ready.
The goldfish’s leaving was a proof and a taunt.
How does anyone own anything, in this day and age?
How does anyone own and owe oneself?
Blue note, pink cloud, grey sky, pyrrhic victory;
misery strips itself of any and all reward, and I have
taken it on, time and again — what is a webbed challenge?
In other words I wasn’t born from yesterday’s rain, to be
suddenly wanting the world to cradle me tender. This
many-fingered kind of love, it does not balance, does not
fortify. I’ve figured I do better where my body slips and sinks.
1/2 out of love, 1/2 out of wanting to see is no way to
live a life: already knew that then. But I just want
there to be still the briny twang of black Moroccan
olives to distract a joyless mouth, dry rice bowls
in which restless fingers comb through rest, steel
guitar strings that whine when you brush them,
the lull of Aznavour on a rainy day, a story worn out
between flicking tome pages, lush embrace of
mother’s incense powder. Not much, not much I’m
asking for. I am ready. I want Prometheus to feature
in my lines and dreams, want him to lend me some of
his prowess, dig up from me the fire and give it back
to me mended, restorative. I am ready. I want to be
near good things, near quiet things, I want to be near
the water. The gaping lonely will never go away. I
already knew that then, won’t start to unlearn this
now. Maybe next time the goldfish could be a person.
Maybe next time it will be full love, and full
wanting to see. Maybe next time I will take on the world,
and say yes, I am ready, and think and think and mean it.
A. Martine is a trilingual writer, musician and artist of color, an Editor at Reckoning Press and a co-Editor-in-Chief/Producer of The Nasiona. Her collection AT SEA was a 2019 Kingdoms in the Wild Poetry Prize shortlist. Some words found in: Berfrois, Déraciné, The Rumpus, Bright Wall/Dark Room, South Broadway Ghost Society, Gone Lawn, Rogue Agent, Boston Accent Lit, Anti-Heroin Chic, Figure 1, Willawaw, Tenderness Lit. @Maelllstrom/www.amartine.com.