Tohm Bakelas
hometown streets like open graves
Last night I dreamed it was summer.
Everything was alive and in bloom.
It was July, one year ago, just a few
days before my birthday. We were
seated on your porch, drinking beer,
kissing under the soft glow of yellow
lights that lined the perimeter of the
space we occupied. Beyond the porch
it was dark, very dark, as if someone
tossed black paint against an already
black canvas. The forecast called for
a bad storm. We knew it was coming,
just not when. You went inside to get
us more beer. I could smell the rain.
When you opened the screen door,
thunder exploded, lightning ripped
the sky open, and static sizzled in the
air like bacon frying in a pan. From
the edge of the porch I photographed
the white hands of lightning attempting
to touch the green neon clock on top
of the high school next to your house.
We sat out there for a while, listening
to the rain, reading poems, talking of
our pasts, dreaming of an unwritten
future, drinking more beer, enjoying
periods of silence, laughing, and
kissing, and holding hands…
But then I woke up. It was 3:17am and
the middle of December. Salt trucks were
out brining the streets in anticipation of
oncoming snow. Autumn, with only six
days left, was quickly dying, choking on
winter’s invasive chill. I climbed out of
bed and walked toward the window. The
pendulum of my tired breath beat against
the cold glass. My hometown streets like
empty graves grew silent. After some time,
I crawled back into bed, with only myself, alone.
autumn is dead
Outside flicking burning matches
onto silent streets, the dying smoke
rises skyward toward vacant dusk,
the starless sky. Keeping company
with the dead is easy, having said
what they’ve already said, they
never talk back, they just listen.
When words are forced and used
for the sake of using, all meaning
is forever lost and becomes useless.
Circumstantial ramblings such as
these provide a fogged window into
a mind plagued by terror, sorrow,
and a complicated but happy life.
Walking along these streets there
is a quiet that only exists on the
cold concrete of hometowns, or
so you convince yourself because
it’s easier to believe you have
something special when you refuse
the possibilities of anything better.
The lone streetlight, struggling to
come alive, flickers on and off.
And like a wounded season that
had no chance—autumn is dead.
