I have been trying
to unbend all of my question marks
so they will resemble exclamation points,
and there will be no more uncertainty,
only excitement.
Now,
there’s no longer a need
for answers.
Just celebration.
My palms have become blistered,
my fingertips callused
from attempting
to place the paper fibers
into a more satisfying alignment.
All of my questions
have now become awkward exclamations,
such as
“Who do you think you are!”
“What is the meaning of life!”
“You’re pregnant!”
I am also trying to straighten out
other bends in my life.
If I could straighten out
my last lover’s hips,
then I could actually become excited
about the prospect of making love
rather than feeling
a despondence
a deep existential doubt about
our relationship,
how this is what we do instead of talk,
how this is quite possibly
the last time
we will ever make love again.
If I could straighten out
my 92-year-old grandmother’s back,
then she could live
the remainder of her life
in joy and exuberance
rather than taking small, careful steps
through her living room,
her spine
punctuating every single
Alzheimer’s statement
about who and where she is,
forced to gaze at the floor
as though searching for
tiny fragments of her life
that broke away and dissolved
into the worn fibers
of the carpet.
Finally,
I could straighten out
that drunken 80 mph bend
in the road
coming down the canyon
during that stupid winter,
then you would still be here
with me tonight
and we could still go
shot-for-shot
still
yell
obscenities
at each
other
from
across the room,
still
dancing
and dancing
and dancing,
and dancing
like idiots,
like death
isn’t lingering
with his
inquisitive breath
on our
shoulders,
Instead I sit here alone, in this room, drinking by myself, staring at the wall, attempting to push paper fibers into alignment, asking your ghost “What the hell were you thinking?”