the adjectival snow

Snow day, snowed in, in bed, all day, fond of Hank the Cat, books everywhere, books on Hank, Hank hates perfume, likes my pheromones. Wish I had a tub so I could take a bloodbath. Coffee aftertaste satisfies like mashed potatoes and meatloaf. I like things with delicate chins. I want this and this and these. And maybe these. Why anatomical hearts are everywhere. Why vampires. Why chastity in Bright Star is hotter than sex. Why snow, why Hank?

For J.D. Salinger

Why all the former greats are dying and we’re left
With an empty irony, glib and unsatisfying. I read
The essay by Joyce Maynard online in the Times and looked at
Pictures of her. She’s always touching her neck.
Perhaps Salinger was a vampire.

Everything’s online these days and that should feel exciting
But what it feels is convenient, if not a little desperate.

Technology is a wedge, the closer the farther, etc., but I
Can’t complain, not fully: I’ve been left with only my memories
Before, and I forget quickly. “Stay in touch” too painfully
Ironic to say without my teeth hurting. To type without my fingers
Hurting. In this world but not of it, I talk and you text. I call
And you hang up, you chat, you scroll through pictures of friends,
Lamenting you have none while I tap my foot. People die.

Not just people, but concepts—magazines and newspapers
Give way to ridiculous devices. I menstruate. The New Yorker
Isn't a sympathetic cheerleader for the underdog but instead a snide recycling bin
For aging intellects who wear wire glasses and quartz jewelry.
And nobody even cares anymore. And nobody wants to resuscitate
It. And my students won’t talk or come to my office but want me
To lecture through email. One-on one-off.

My blog has three entries; this makes me anxious. I know someone’s listening

Because someone I don’t know left a comment. It felt like a stranger
Commenting on my bra. But I put it out there; it’s my fault
For trying to be relevant. Then again, what’s the point?

Pump ideas (why is talk about writing always phallic and/or militant?)
Disseminate (see) ideas into the world, because I’m an idea

Machine with feelings that name your feelings? Doctor, doctor, give me the news—

It’s bad, getting worse. And you found it here, self-diagnosed, online.

The problem is space. I can go far away because it’s just like being
Here with you, but not really, because I can’t touch you. Which
Is the second problem. Doesn’t everybody need to be touched,
To touch, even just a handshake, a shoulder brushing shoulder in the street?
Maybe not. I do.

A few weeks go by and my body feels electric, each accidental
Touch lightning. This is why people who are lonely then fall in love feel
“Sparks.” It’s not magic or even chemistry, just loneliness finally relieved.
After a few weeks of pretending the pillow behind me is the softness of your back,
I want to be pressed down. This incredible lightness

I almost start levitating, need your weight to push me down. It’s not sexual,
Though maybe that too, but a need to be contained. Checked. Not an avatar
Not pixels, but flesh on flesh. You realize me.