1.1
All my life I’ve shown up late.
But when I do, I compensate
for my delay—I laugh and preen and carry on
as if I had been present all along.
I stayed in utero, for instance, two
weeks after I was due,
then came out so decisively and fast
I couldn’t breathe. I spent my first
night on earth alone inside a tent
flushed full of oxygen, the event
from which (my dad believes)
have sprung like fires all my weird anxieties.
Mostly I can’t see myself at all
until I sense in someone else a parallel,
like how I only realize what
I want at the moment I attain it,
my mind the final part of me to know.
I’ve hurt people I love being so
late to my desires. Last year, I met someone I thought
I couldn’t live without, and in the process lost
another, without whom I thought I’d
die. If I had only realized
sooner, etc., etc. But I handled things ineptly
and he left. I didn’t die. Instead, I went to therapy
and saw the stegosaur uptown, stayed with friends
and drank a lot of tea. Even then,
riding the bus to visit my new lover,
I was breathless always, early almost never.
1.2
She found me in the winter at a bar,
one of those places in Bed-Stuy not far
from Clinton Hill—a platonic meeting
set up by a friend who worked in media
and thought we’d get along. I got there first and snatched
a booth and started reading Middlemarch,
a novel I’ve been halfway through for more
than half my life. When she strode through the door,
Oh shit, I love that book, I’ve read it fifteen
times, she said, and asked my favorite scene.
I looked down at page 98,
open on the table. Maybe when Lydgate
first meets Dorothea, and Eliot’s
talking about how the “stealthy convergence of human lots,”
when analyzed in retrospect,
shows a “slow preparation of effects
from one life on another,” I replied. Totally,
she said. The conversation turned to poetry,
our few mutual friends: one’s PhD, one’s startup,
one’s divorce. I was too skittish and caught up
in my charade to feel, charging the space
between us like a ray, the knowing gaze
of Destiny, which Eliot would say stood by
sarcastic with our dramatis personae
folded in her hand. Besides, I practically had a husband—
a man as opposite to her as Casaubon
was opposite to Will. On the A train
home, I read that paragraph again,
then closed the book and marked the chapter,
telling myself that I’d resume it after.
1.3
I thought she thought my life was trivial
since she was queer and edited periodicals
and I was a poet who had never dated a woman.
Every night she’d attend some trendy function
with people dressed in Eckhaus and Givenchy
while I shambled off to walk-in shows at raunchy
bars, or raunchier bars that never put on
shows. Or anyway, that was my perception.
Now I know that hers were mostly networking
events—book launches and openings—their settings
often even spots where I’d have grabbed a drink
myself. Still, when I surveyed the fabric
of my life back then, its familiar openwork
of sex and teaching, kale and NPR,
and the boyfriend at the center I revered
but felt I had been failing many years,
I dreaded she’d dismiss me. (Though when I looked
at him—and at my friends—I thought, How bad could
my life really be with people like these in it?
Gentle, loyal, practical, considerate…)
The difference was, I knew my friends,
I knew my life, while hers remained
a vivid new reality that swirled
behind a scintillating door, a world
where people wore athleisure haute and seemed
to vape incessantly, the sticks lighting up green
or white like tiny pagers every time they’d pull.
I hated the air that came out of them, the smell
like cleaning solvent or an afterthought
of fruit, but found them mesmerizing, too. I’d zone out
and imagine that a tiny person lived inside each
cartridge, who would sprint to switch
the lightbulb on and fan the fire
when she felt a drag. She must get so tired,
I would think. This elaborate e-cig reverie
was not so different from my theory
of her life—which, because unknown,
was also marvelous and false, complete invention.
It took months to really reach her through the cloud
of myth my adoration made. Until I could,
I lived in fear she’d finally see
my fetish and discrepancy, and flee.
Copyright © 2023 by Maggie Millner