Nov 142012

by Marina Rubin


He was a child of chewed-out pencils.

I was a hunter of dust behind bureaus,

under beds, searching for his journal.

I found it one day without locks or guards

at our parents’ house where we’ve become

special guests on holidays and birthdays.

In a drawer among old magazines and records,

the cloistered soul laid in the hunter’s hand,

with its red vinyl binding faded, scratched,

corners curled, pages creased, falling out.

Among forbidden writings I saw a sketch:

a large table in front of a mirror, a little girl

standing on top in full-height, grimacing,

lopsided bow in her hair, a crooked scribble:

Marina is trying on yet another dress. June 1989.

Today is February 2012, snow falling on the

windshield. Distances in miles, years, lifestyles.

He is now a family man of Caran d’Ache pens.

I am a hunter of words, a collector of dresses.

With each meeting we become older, meager.

I brought the journal back, slipped it in between

magazines, locked away the past in a drawer,

took it out again, stuck a piece of bubble gum

on the last page, as a sign of my victory