Embedded Files
Bad Debt
I was mad, but now I am sane
— Cervantes
In Paris, the moon was a pad of butter
and the sky was a room of girls. Oh turn
me over and over again like the sun.
I’m so in love, she told me that morning
as we pulled off the freeway
and took off our shirts. Sorry, what? Cow parsley/
bright ragwort. Pete’s greengages
and grapes on the dash. Yeah, there’s a drought
and the crops won’t grow. Can we pop into Tesco? Wait—
go. Down the footpath that leads
to the back of the old graveyard, the Wye
glistens like a cold
black bull. Press my cheek
against the chapel floor and the stone
whispers back, St Michael
mouthing to us through the glass. What do you mean!
said the devil when I ran. Cut me, baby, grease
the blade. I used to be able
to stomach the dare—red light/
white mare. Watching the storm thrash like a prayer
from the road by the vineyard
and the window upstairs. I remember a sheepfold
with you in it. The godlike
serpent in the hills. I’ll tell you the problem—
I left. Bad debt. It’s true
I wanted Joel to grab
my blueish neck. Remember that New Year’s I kissed your girlfriend
and the whole house spun like an idol. That breakbeat
quickening the rafters. The night I guess I
proposed to you among the clay-dark trees. I’ll tell you
the problem—all this is going to
break my heart. Beneath the great arch bridges
that blink at me slowly, the sirens are singing for someone else
as a houseboat oracle spreads Anju’s cards
and valerian bursts from the walls. In Notting Hill,
we move in together and shoot lots of gear
and he says I swear. What was all that for? asks G. at the dive
where we met, and is answered. I’ve seen
the things boys write about me. At the beginning
of the line, when I thought
you would be the one to save me, my faith was a barren tunnel
and the moon rising over the crag. When I followed you—
yes, followed—to the edge of the knife-
green sea, sweet piece
turning like Jesus inside me. My heart is a muscle
turning like Jesus inside me. I know you know, but
God, my friend, we’re
shot. The clubs are closing.
The girls I loved have children now.
Talin Tahajian is from Massachusetts. Her poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Best New Poets, The Rumpus, Copper Nickel, Narrative Magazine, Poetry Magazine, TriQuarterly, Pleiades, West Branch, The Missouri Review, The Drift, Mizna, The Georgia Review, and elsewhere. She’s a PhD student at Yale and an assistant editor of The Yale Review.
Copyright © 2024 by Talin Tahajian, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author
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