The Book of Weston

We sleep in late and I wake dazed.

I sit on the couch reorienting myself

to her apartment while she starts the pancakes.

I join her, and pop songs paint an alternate

universe over the speaker, saying

what we can't anymore.

We eat, not finishing the stack.

We wrap it in plastic and pretend

there will be time to finish them later.

We leave the apartment, walk in the sun,

talk at the train station like nothing's different.

Half-hour and we're there: staring at penguins.

They squabble, one feeds another from its gullet.

Could I do that, I wonder, if I was a penguin?

Could I empty myself for another?

Outside we explore the winding pathways,

faces red from the Canadian chill.

She runs ahead searching for animals,

dragging me along by the hand,

leading the way like she always has,

smiling and laughing like nothing is happening.

I hold on for dear life

but inwardly my grip is slipping.

The sun falls fast, and the zoo is closing.

We rush around searching for the gorillas

but find them catatonic in their cage,

napping, staring into the distance,

no longer performing.

The zoo lights come on:

colored lights in cold trees, in the ambience

of christmas music and steaming cocoa.

So many things could be said

that aren't, or have been said

through squeezes of the hand and long glances.

We seek artificial warmth in the greenhouse

where photo-op benches encircled by lights

mock us at every turn.

A worker volunteers, so we oblige:

forced smiles from a distance.

In the dark garden we walk amongst shadows

and soft piano music, gripping sweaty palms.

She points at plants, explaining taxonomies

while I hold back tears.

On the way back, she interrogates me

about why or how it makes sense:

Why don't I want to stay?

She knocks down my reasons, one by one,

and I am left without words, only mute feelings.

At her apartment we shower together,

eat dinner together,

watch TV cuddled up together, but inside

a canyon yawns between us.

In bed I turn away quickly

but she searches for my cold hand,

and reaching across the widening expanse,

I give it again, for a little while longer.