Tag Archives: wish

The Me Poem

This poem will be about me.
First person.
What I want.
What I don’t.
Here is an introduction—
Hello. I’m DeMaris
and I have everything…almost.
The thing I don’t have is love,
which is the only thing I want.
Love and tenderness mixed together
would be almost perfect.
Almost more than I could stand.
Oh, and time.
Time with the loved-one.
The love and tenderness
are meaningless
if there is no warm flesh
to put my arms around.
I need love to be present.
I need love to be priority.
So many people love me the right way:
family, friends.
Their love is correct, wholesome.
But the love I don’t have—
the love I want, is specific,
romantic, reciprocal.
Love is offered to me all the time,
but it’s the wrong love
by the wrong people.
I kick it away.
I run.
It’s not what I want.
I reject it.
Unwanted love expands my emptiness.
Chokes me.
Last week
the wrong man wrote me a sad song
which was beautiful
and moved me to tears,
and another wrong man sent me a book
called “Humanimal”
because he knew
I was into self-examination.
And just yesterday
Mr. Still Wrong
offered the right thing.
(the wrong men are always so creative)
He wanted us to cook something new
in the crock pot—mine or his,
it didn’t matter where.
And he proposed we do something fun
in the hours we waited.
Like the others
he’s done his homework.
He thinks he knows how to woo me
so he suggested we hike my favorite trail
while our dinner simmered away—
and then, get this—
he wanted us to try new wines.
New red wines.
Wines, plural.
How fucking goddamn romantic.
But there is not a single cell in my body
that wants to make love to him.
Or fuck him.
Or him.
Or him.
Not a single tingle of excitement
or desire.
And all my self-examination
has led me to believe
that it doesn’t really matter
that there are a zillion men
who match my criteria—
all the boxes checked—
all of them taller
the list isn’t that long.
In fact, that’s the list.
Three things that must be.
Everything else is chemistry
and respect
and an infinite list of must-nots—
the turnoffs—
the non-negotiables—
the first of which
is a wardrobe drenched in sports logos
and baseball caps and a preference
for the indoors
which tells me absolutely everything
I need to know.
And yes,
I am that black and white
and yes,
I am that inflexible
and yes,
to love
from afar
which is where I am
and where I will remain
until love shows up, bravely,
at my goddamn door.






“Her Room” Andrew Wyeth, 1963


you rack your brain
for answers
why how why how
were you mistaken
is it possible
you were mistaken
he was too good to be true
after all
which can only mean
he wasn’t
that he wasn’t true
after all
because if he was
if he was really true
he’d be looking for you now
in the haystack of this city
with a population
of not very many needles
and you aren’t that hard
to find
because he knows
where you live
unless he doesn’t
unless he is
unless he was
just a dream after all
and you keep thinking
about him
about the dream he was
and about the dream
you had last night
where you were next to him
on the train
and you were happy
and you arrived
in some future
with blue streamers
and carved hearts
on every wall
they were almost beating





“Chambered Nautilus” by Andrew Wyeth, 1956


Last First Day

we made his bed
on the last day of the year
in a room in a house
that belonged to his friend
and the white sheets
spotted with wildflowers
would become the only garden
we would ever have a chance
to lie down in
because this country
wasn’t his home anymore
and the plane ticket
in his soft brown leather bag
couldn’t be exchanged
for a future in my arms–
where I held him
for five beautiful hours
before I had to give him up
to the years ahead
which would never include me.




“Lamia” by John William Waterhouse, 1905 (not the full painting)

No One Is Going To Die

You are friendless
on a night
it would be helpful
to have someone intervene
and interrupt your sorrow
and take away the bottle
that is almost as empty
as your heart—
so all you can do
is pretend you see a light
at the end of this dark tunnel
where he waits for you
the man who could erase
your tears just by existing
a little closer
to where you are








After the heart is broken
what choice does it have
but to bleed out
to scab
to scar
to somehow
blend in again with skin
that’s textured as yours?

After the heart is broken
what choice does it have
but to heal
to  hope
to wait
to somehow
believe that love
has been looking for you
and all it wants is for you
to notice it and stay.









Nights Like This

Nights like this
you wish he would
show up at your door
out of the blue sorrow
you’ve been swimming in.
Nights like this
you imagine yourself letting go.
You imagine breaking
the tight grip of every restraint
propriety has on you.
Nights like this
you are alone enough
to imagine yourself
out of bounds.
You are alone enough
to imagine yourself bold.
Nights like this
are the nights
he never comes.







The filter is on
and love is squirming
trying to say
what it feels
like it needs to say
but I am the gatekeeper
who decides
how much
should be revealed
and I have one finger
on the trigger
one foot on the gas
another finger
over the barrel
and one heel
about to catch fire
from all this friction
all this dragging
all this restraint
that is supposed
to save me
from embarrassment
and the sudden
doe-eyed expression
on my face
that contains
every truth I can
never say.





Painting by Vilhelm Hammershoi, public domain