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image of rolling tobacco across a joy division record, image of your first real love

Amory Paul

picture of the public bus approaching in the distance, picture of letting it pass, skipping your last days of high school
picture of playing in the snow with kids in ukrainian neighborhoods, picture of the boy mocking you in the expanse of an endless field
notion of agoraphobia, cold feeling of snow blowing.
image of the asian girl lying down by your side, playing with your fingers and grinning up at you
picture of her making funny faces, noise of the theatre director talking
image of passed out drunk on a country road, smell of the vomit on your shirt, sign of sirens in the distance.
the feeling waking up, the sight of your girlfriend talking to the cops, the dogs’ breath on your ears – why did the cops bring dogs out for complaints of a drunk eighteen year old?
sick-sweet scent of the Christian Brothers, the oaky smell your brother left on the jacket he gave you
cinnamon smell of the Four Roses, all your mother’s stolen perfumes she lined up on her cheap shelves
the 5’0 girl who was your first, the warmth of her breath or her tears on your sleeve
the first girl you ever loved, the feeling of her hands playing with your hair.
the stars from last new years,
the rush of the ground under your feet.
the beauty of the campus,
the unplugged drain in your chest.
the pretty girls sitting under the trees,
the boys who all looked alike
the tired professors,
the rich folk all around you,
the vague air of your dead family
occasionally caught on the wind.
image of the flowers you picked for your mother
when she was in rehab and she sat with your dad in the gardens, talking about what they were going to do.
image of the flower pressed into your dad’s picturebook,
wilted and flat
the scent of pot and booze on his breath,
the scars on his wrists,
the shaking heroism that still shuddered off of him.
the way his arms would always be strong.
the way he cried at your grandfather’s funeral.
the last words he spoke to you.
all the times he was so
“dumb.”
because who are you to call him weak?
the noise of your crying, breaking down in your girlfriend’s car,
2 AM the morning of some big exam, unable to return to your dorm,
deciding to drop out of college
the way the doors and the windshield held your breakdown in
and all the laughing, drunk students coming back from the downtown bars.
the taste of brandy when you swallow,
the sweet smell of rolling tobacco on your record,
the image of your first love
the unbelievable idea that it has
really
been
that long.
the image of your first day of middle school,
waving to your friend who ended up dead, still not aware how to do your hair.
image of the college dropout all alone,
fairly sure he’s forgotten
how she liked to do her hair.

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