Requiem for a Fantasy

Table of Blessings
Table of Blessings by Maryanne Jacobsen

blue raspberries call my name, and on that sunny day, at lunch, i recall why i liked you in the first place.
no reason, no gain
nothing but solitary bugs glistening in the sun as they cross our table;
we dream of far off places, perhaps the berlin you painted for me in vivid colors,
a secret garden in the corner of belief, a land where black grapes can’t pass for olives,
a land where our taste buds aren’t confused, a land where I get to taste you without remorse…
the yellow of the table gleams with hope, a language i can understand better than any other language
i hope you never get panic attacks again
i hope you get on your boat
i hope you never start smoking again
i hope you are well
i hope
last winter we were only two strangers reading inscriptions on the walls of bars, howling our angst and dissatisfaction at the moon
me on the cusp of begging you to grab another beer and forget
you chasing the night away, hand it to the claws of neglect
please don’t look at me this way, you said
I broke the rules and looked at you exactly that way

*

i have traced the shape of your lips with my brush dipped in red several times before
and each time it took the shape of affliction
a testament of my bleeding carved on your demeanor
whence this longing? this stupendous longing?
for more than just a swift hello and an even swifter bye
without all the meaninglessness in between
i wish i wouldn’t have to look you in the eyes and see something,
that something that is on the verge of nothing
i want you near me with the same force i am repelled by you
where is my exit, my fire escape?
am i one of your burnt writings?
scattered ashes of a random whole on the roof of creation?
always stuck in her old ways

but when the lilacs bloom, we can finally have our spring
nestled inside the painting studio near the park
all that green will feed us and we’ll live off the smell of wet paint and the taste of wine
a candid bowl of soup and kindness served at our glowing lunch table…

a primitive feast awaits us
but it never comes
and yet it has come, if only in a different form
there is no requiem for this fantasy

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s