Jim Clements

You’re the face in the dark pressed to the window. You’re sewn in my sheets. The toys in the bed table. You’re the hair on the brush in the drawer I won’t open, the smell on the blankets I’ve given up folding, and although I don’t want you, I still want everything. The corners I cut when I picked out our wedding rings. When you swam with the swans, knee-deep in your reflection. Your precision of anger, when I lost my direction. The films that I ruined when I asked what they meant to you. How you never believed that I can’t tell greens from blues. The backseat of your car, which we only used once, the same night I found out we wouldn’t last out the month.
 
I’m soft in the middle now. I have trouble breathing well, and still when I smoke it’s because you can’t stand the smell. I always wanted to touch you, but I was afraid of the fingerprints. I tried to undress you but you were done up with safety pins. Everyone that I’ve loved, they sit in me peacefully, but you never go away, you bruise me with company. When I’m damp in the night, trying to picture new faces, I can only see costumes, positions, and places. When I think of their bodies, I fill in the gaps with the scar on your hand, the hair on the small of your back, and although you’re gone, you still choose my clothes for me. I still trim your roses and pull out the darker weeds.
 
And I think of explorers, sun-stroked and stumbling, who just keep on moving, not looking for anything, just covering ground, past sun-bleached ribcages, knowing that knowing comes with time, and with age. And a spray of butterflies, turning off their colours, so that faith slips away, and certainty follows. There’s a light that reveals; there’s a light that just blinds. There are chains that give comfort, and chains that just bind. Those who you forget when they’re out of your sight, and those you’ve never met who are never out of your mind. But I can’t look for others, I can barely see them. When rocks break apart, I look for the heart of them.
 
And I’m still making up for you. Still waking up for you. Still dressing well for you. Still working hard for you. Still on my best for you. Still on my feet for you. I still hold my pride and my decency dear for you. I’m still standing here for you, but I am not waiting here for you. I am here for you. I am here for you. I am here for you. I am here for you.

I didn't ask if I could bring you home,or if you wanted to stay. You’ll leave when you’re strong enough to escape. When you're scared, you run to me. I can't tell you how much that means. How sweet you feel it's safer here.

I lay you down in the water because the water helps you sleep.
Then I pick you up just to lay you down again.
 
I make you listen while I sing, sharing my darkest things.Maybe that's why you scream in the night. Here there’s no mystery. There’s nothing here than I can’t see. I wash you head to feet, every night.

I wanted to reveal everything inside of me, but just in case there isn’t much to see, I made a back-up plan and kept my fingers crossed. I kept my fingers crossed. But then there was a choice, which isn’t always good, to start a fire, or keep on chopping wood. As soon as I had made that back-up plan, I’d already lost. I was already lost. But I can pay all my bills. I own a house. I'm taking pills And regrets? I've had a few. Just a few.
 
Still wondering if Renee meant what she said, while Louise reads next to me in bed. I never made a choice, besides the thousand every day too small to see. Too small to see. Love followed anyway, like sleep follows the day. And regrets? I’ve had a few. Just a few.
 
There's snow knee high outside the door, and inside, the fireplace is warm. Because life is long, and we’re all so tired. We’ve already lost. We’re already lost.

Don’t leave your bed. The floor’s too cold. There’s nothing in the fridge. Don’t work out. You’ll just get tired. No one cares how you look. Don't go to work. No one there likes you. You're not very good at it. Don’t read a book. Nothing that you learn can change anything. Don't go to a bar. You're looking for something that can’t be found in bars. Don't share your thoughts. No one cares what you think. They're only waiting for their turn to talk. Don't make new friends. You're not nine years old. They have all the friends they need. Your old friends might think of you with a smile, but only once in a while. Don't have sex. You'll spend the whole time thinking you’re disappointing her. Don't fall in love. This one's most important. You're far too delicate. Don't express yourself. All you'll discover is you're not that interesting. Don't be good. You'll just get angry that no one tries as hard as you. Don’t be kind.You won’t get a medal.They’ll leave your body by the road.Don't plan ahead. You might get cancer or commit suicide.Or ignore all this as I know you will. That's how bad things are.
 

My crime was not so serious, they'd all forgotten what I'd done between the time the trial had ended, and sentencing had begun. But I was as tired as the jury, and I didn't see the harm in trading one home for another, if the beds are just as warm. Last night there was a fire somewhere out beyond the pen. We put our noses to the window panes, and dreamed of being firemen. When I was slightly freer than I am today, I always took the first job that came my way. But I had a gun on the outside, and everybody knew to stay away.

When they first brought me in here I had to give them all my things
They took some keys, some coins, my father's belt, and both of my wedding rings, but they let me keep my cigarettes, which I traded for a page torn out of an old magazine, of a girl about my age. I got a letter from a stranger, who heard about me in the news. He said he wanted nothing, and it made me feel used, so I did a drawing of halo, with nothing underneath, and I mailed it to the stranger. After that he let me be. I had a gun on the outside, and everybody knew to stay away.
 
The man who shares my bunk with me does bird calls in his sleep, and when he’s awake he talks of nothing but what he’d like to eat.He says he has a baby, and he thinks of her more now Than he could when he lived with her. You can see it makes him proud. There's a scar beneath my navel that I've not noticed before, that matches one my mother's had from before I was born. I would ask her what it means, but she hasn't got a phone, and, like me, she's at her happiest when she's left alone. I had a gun on the outside so everybody knew to stay away.
 
In the yard I walk in circles as there's nowhere else to go, but in the autumn there are fallen leaves, and in the winter there is snow. The guards are never changing, which comforts me at least, and there's a cook inside the kitchen, and in the chapel there's a priest. There's a camera in the chapel, with no red light to show it's on. I don't go there to say prayers, as I've done nothing wrong, but I put both hands together, just to touch and to be touched, and I try not to look happy, in case I’m being watched. I had a gun on the outside, and everybody knew to stay away.
 
I don’t think of getting out, but I keep both eyes on the gate, to see who they're letting in, in case I recognize a face. One day I saw them dragging in a boy in a paper crown, who looked terrified to be here, but I'm sure is fine by now. Sometimes my cellmate lets me talk about the things that trouble me, and he nods and smiles as he flicks through a garden magazine. Sometimes my door is left unlocked, which I imagine is a test. My dreams have gotten stranger. I sleep now less and less. I had a gun on the outside, and everybody knew to stay away.