"fading identities" by Fabio Sassi
Meghan Miraglia | Eligible
On Hinge, a man named Justin says, “You just look like you’d be the greatest
wife, like, you’re ready to pick up the kids in the Porsche.” Justin, I am afraid
you have the wrong impression. I am afraid of many things, like, my parents
aging, or my own failure to publish a manuscript, or estrangement from my sister.
Justin, have you ever tried to birth the dream that has made you its home?
Have you ever thought about the impossibility of writing so much? When
you were young, very young, did you wait up for your mother to come home
from the night shift? Was it wintertime? Did the plows come and push
snow into banks, and did the snow mix with gasoline, and did the snow
turn grey, and did that color, scuffed and indelicate, break your heart?
Did you watch for the snowbanks to turn gold beneath the halo of the one
light on your dead-end street? And every perfect yellow flash was your mother’s
car, or it wasn’t, and those were the only two answers in the whole world?
Justin, that feeling is the same feeling I get when I watch my mother wait for drivers
to stop and let her cross the road, and, when they do, she lifts her hand without
waving it. She just holds it in the air, palm facing them. One day, she’ll go where I can’t
see her, hair covering her face in silver thread. Justin, let’s say I say yes.
Let’s say I am dutiful. Let’s say we meet and fall in love right now, on the river,
where that dark, terrifying water bends the way you wish I would. Let’s say
you take me back to your apartment, and my face is hidden when I say Yes
and God and Yes with an open throat, my dream expired. Let’s say you buy
a baguette diamond and have it set in white gold, even though that is not
what I asked for. Let’s say I say Yes for real. You say Yes for real. I birth you
two sons, bring them to you like breath in ether. We name them whatever
you’d like. What I’d like is a Porsche, Justin. A red one. Red as apple. Red
as Plath’s comet. Red as ambition. Red as mean streak, as the notebook
of mine that you threw in the Charles. Remember, Justin? That night dissolved
into tantrums. I didn’t touch you for eight days. What I want, Justin,
is a Porsche red as a starlet singing for her life. Red as redemption, as memoir.
You say Yes. The poems in my drawer, Justin, are shaping themselves
into diptychs, into bells, into brutish things, and Justin, I am afraid of so much.
It’s like I told you in the beginning. Have you gone home? Have you asked
your parents what more you can do? Have you sat with yourself? Have you written
a sonnet? Have you looked into my eyes, Justin? I am your wife.
I am taking the poems from my drawer, unfurling them, setting
the small bones in their wings with our sons’ toothbrushes. I am taking
the keys from the bowl by our front door. I am strapping the poems into car
seats, tightening all of the straps. I am taking the Porsche. I am taking everything.
I am singing a lullaby, low and sweet, and I am getting the words wrong.
But it doesn’t matter, Justin. The poems are awake.
wife, like, you’re ready to pick up the kids in the Porsche.” Justin, I am afraid
you have the wrong impression. I am afraid of many things, like, my parents
aging, or my own failure to publish a manuscript, or estrangement from my sister.
Justin, have you ever tried to birth the dream that has made you its home?
Have you ever thought about the impossibility of writing so much? When
you were young, very young, did you wait up for your mother to come home
from the night shift? Was it wintertime? Did the plows come and push
snow into banks, and did the snow mix with gasoline, and did the snow
turn grey, and did that color, scuffed and indelicate, break your heart?
Did you watch for the snowbanks to turn gold beneath the halo of the one
light on your dead-end street? And every perfect yellow flash was your mother’s
car, or it wasn’t, and those were the only two answers in the whole world?
Justin, that feeling is the same feeling I get when I watch my mother wait for drivers
to stop and let her cross the road, and, when they do, she lifts her hand without
waving it. She just holds it in the air, palm facing them. One day, she’ll go where I can’t
see her, hair covering her face in silver thread. Justin, let’s say I say yes.
Let’s say I am dutiful. Let’s say we meet and fall in love right now, on the river,
where that dark, terrifying water bends the way you wish I would. Let’s say
you take me back to your apartment, and my face is hidden when I say Yes
and God and Yes with an open throat, my dream expired. Let’s say you buy
a baguette diamond and have it set in white gold, even though that is not
what I asked for. Let’s say I say Yes for real. You say Yes for real. I birth you
two sons, bring them to you like breath in ether. We name them whatever
you’d like. What I’d like is a Porsche, Justin. A red one. Red as apple. Red
as Plath’s comet. Red as ambition. Red as mean streak, as the notebook
of mine that you threw in the Charles. Remember, Justin? That night dissolved
into tantrums. I didn’t touch you for eight days. What I want, Justin,
is a Porsche red as a starlet singing for her life. Red as redemption, as memoir.
You say Yes. The poems in my drawer, Justin, are shaping themselves
into diptychs, into bells, into brutish things, and Justin, I am afraid of so much.
It’s like I told you in the beginning. Have you gone home? Have you asked
your parents what more you can do? Have you sat with yourself? Have you written
a sonnet? Have you looked into my eyes, Justin? I am your wife.
I am taking the poems from my drawer, unfurling them, setting
the small bones in their wings with our sons’ toothbrushes. I am taking
the keys from the bowl by our front door. I am strapping the poems into car
seats, tightening all of the straps. I am taking the Porsche. I am taking everything.
I am singing a lullaby, low and sweet, and I am getting the words wrong.
But it doesn’t matter, Justin. The poems are awake.
Meghan Miraglia is a poet, essayist and educator living in Boston, Massachusetts. An MFA student at Boston University, her work appears in various print and online literary journals.
Fabio Sassi is a photographer and acrylic artist. He enjoys imperfections, and reframing the ordinary in his artwork. Fabio lives in Bologna, Italy and his work can be viewed at https://fabiosassi.foliohd.com
