once, i heard that there was no future
only the past repeating itself again and again
this night, city fog rolls in and hides downtown
in its melted river and drunken pedestrians
night just opening the doors of bars to passersby
the edge of town is dark and the mist so thick that
the back of me gets buried by a wall of white
and the front sees the road trailing off to meet
a sky that no one can see.
these nights are few and far between.
the past has held its parties in evenings like these,
where it celebrates things that have already happened
and things that will surely happen again. it waits
around every corner, looking back two years and then
peering around the edge of that to see what's left
beyond. if the past is the future then it makes sense
that i can still be angry after all this time.
could you be satisfied with a woman who
you could look at but never touch? he was on the
couch, begging, then telling. she was on the couch, crying,
saying no. and his hands were all over her, the ball
was counting down the new year and he was violating
her with her false permission, her tears that told him
obviously she was no woman, she was a girl. and she
had still been girl, and then he decided he would like to do
more than yell and fight and look and he would like
to yell and fight and touch, and take and take.
the tendrils of fog are drawing the curtain
around the past, because surely that mistake, though
mistakes can happen more than once, will never happen
again. and i am a woman now, and my boy, he is a man,
with a shaved head and a warm heart and a body to
draw on in the mist, somewhere out there. and i think
the future holds the past, but i am ready for new
consequences and summer to burn away this winter sheet
and show me life again in all its secret, muted glory.