14 Months

14 Months
By Natalie Bograd

September
I watched them drive into the hazy distance
wondering if they’d forgotten something
but the something was me
I gave into the heat
the heat of virtual friends turned into
living beings, crowding next to me
stuffing tears under pillowcases and into closets
their need dripping like sweat from every pore
need vodka
need sex need
identity need
someone to go to dinner with.

October
There was a moment right before I kissed him
a frozen endless moment before
sex
turned tangible rather than conceptual
but we never actually got there
we scrawled angst onto each others’ lips
I lay under my sheets finishing
what he started
my roommates asleep
a rare silence a rare
break from the fluorescent lights that punished me
as soon as he left leaving tea stains and words
for lip rings maybe better sex maybe more
just more

November
Aside from the people vomiting in the hallway
the broken bathroom tiles
the dreary near-cold that hung over me
I was fine.
Fine to look at the metal frame of the mattress above me
and listen to my roommate sob
fine to stay on my back, take another muscle relaxant and half-sleep
fine to smile at them all with lies
I was fine…I was…

December
Darkness.

January
I felt hunger. I could breathe.
I slept again.
I did not dream.

February
I scraped ice off the car
all of us together like weary warriors
coming out of the dim womb
the snow blinding after hours of watching images on screens
and adjusting lenses
smearing fake blood on actors’ faces
playing the same frame over and over again

I watched the kids play in the snow
skidding on ice they seem indestructible
but so fragile evidenced by the number of
band-aids I applied frigid hands I warmed between my own
watching them cleared some of the heaviness from my mind
connecting through them to life itself like
the umbilical cord connecting a baby to its mother
I was their age again curling up on my parents’ rug
desperate for contact afraid and unsteady
I still believed there were monsters
under the bed.

March
I don’t know when I fell in love with him
the time we went out to sushi or maybe
once I knew he had a girlfriend
we dressed sharp and I felt like it
was my high school prom
he poured me another rum and coke
and I clung to him more than desperately
frantically as if the world would disappear if I stopped touching him

My mother turned fifty
her skin glowing under the disco ball
my dad the nerd dating the homecoming queen
I danced amid fake roses
things were growing again and I had plans
but for that night I clasped hands with my tribe
fought war depression homophobia genocide
by swaying in a white dress to the strains of music
for the woman who gave me life not once but twice.

April
The boys in school thought I had a nice ass
but wouldn’t let me touch the sound equipment


May
My dad’s birthday
his repaired heart beats for us
this gaggle of women
our alto laughter reaching unknown decibels
sometimes he’ll do an Irish jig because he
knows it’ll start us off

Fucking Citizen Kane.

The kids are growing
impossibly
the boys and girls flock together
spring
I read for the first time in months

June
I pack of my own will this time
move into a standard dorm room
but this time it’s mine
and there is space around my thoughts
ringed by mountains
stars rise at night.

July
It’s hotter than hell
we bathe in natural springs write letters
study for finals at the oddest time of year
he comes up to visits me
pins me on the twin bed
kisses the life out of me and disappears
he can hear my sobs all the way down the hall
but what comfort can he offer?







August
Homemade ice cream
I nervously set up house in a houseful of strangers
I buy notebooks and sign papers
committing me to another new life
I drink too much red wine and stumble renewed into
a bed with soft sheets and unfamiliar white walls
I wake up not sure what is the dream and
what is awake

September
Class, nap, beer, television, test
homework, takeout
awkward near sex
he never calls
beer, choir, nap, email
the neat little house littered with the detritus of 4 busy lives

October
You shimmer into me
brush leaves into my hair with callused fingers
I don’t think I see
snow you naked under a blanket
I breathe into your neck
you lift me so easily into your lap
I wonder where my baggage is
how you can lift me like that
why I’m not heavy
I smile oddly at strangers
my words return to me
except when your hands are in my hair.