Joaquin and You

Poetry

Joaquin was your imaginary friend as a child

And you refer to him with fondness

And I suspect somewhere deep in your heart he’s still there

I look at your eyes and see them looking

For the friend you never saw but who meant

So much to your childhood

You remember letting Joaquin beat you at chess

(you were always better)

You remember thinking it would be funny to rearrange

Your parents’ room while they slept, but you needed

Joaquin’s help somehow, they never found it funny

And Joaquin never got that spanking for causing

All that trouble

Now that you remember I see your eyes turn in on themselves

Looking for Joaquin

They sift through veins and blood and marrow and

Bones, swimming up capillaries and into arteries

They explore every inch of your soul but all they find

Is an oddly shaped muscle pumping blood throughout

Your body lub dub lub dub lub dub, constantly,

Only stopping momentarily for a sneeze.

It’s like when my best friend moved to New York when I was

Younger – the little jokes were what I missed the most

You don’t remember when you stopped seeing Joaquin

But you know your parents had something to do with it

Was some time between the ages of 12 and 16 and on

Your 16th birthday Joaquin failed to make an appearance;

He didn’t even leave a card blood now fills the area in which

Joaquin could be found.

You understand that the heart is responsible for its circulation

And not your laughter. You know that your lungs take in oxygen,

Allowing the chemical processes that sustain your life to take place

And you breathe out CO2, food for the trees

Your movements and thoughts are controlled

By bursts of electricity crossing the space between synapses and

Coursing through neurons

I’m writing

Hand movements, blink blink, twice

Joaquin’s playful smile and mischievous suggestions have given way to:

6:30 wake up

6:40 shower

6:50 shave

7:00 coffee and cigarettes

7:10 cereal and fruit

7:30 go to work

9:00 work

5:00 go home

It’s a blissful redundancy with no room for Joaquin.

Every month you get a paycheck, save some of it.

And once in awhile you go out, fuck, get drunk.

Your parents have white hair, their skin has seen better days.

They never got botox, they don’t remember Joaquin.

Soon you forget too.

Years later when your bones don’t let you walk around like they used to,

When the constant lub dub of your heart sputters lub dub lub lub lub dub lub

And you realize that unlike a car battery, this one can’t be charged.

You’ll be sitting on your sterile bed, the walls around you white and bare,

A slight curtain separating you from your neighbor

(I’m long gone by this point)

One day you’ll move the curtain and see Joaquin in the bed next to you

He has no hair and his bones protrude oddly, from

Tightly drawn skin you ask him where he’s been and he sees you

His eyes light up, their shine brighter than the room

His choking laugh grates with mirth

You see the same sly grin and you remember fully

Your childhood, and memories of Joaquin

Your eyes close again and this time the blood flow has stopped

But you see Joaquin’s youthful face, smiling

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s