Seattle 46, or Comfort

In the aftermath of my exit from writing class, I sat down with the intention of cuddling myself for awhile. I re-read my favorite books, spent long hours curled up in bed enjoying the heaviness of my blankets, invited my friends for dinner and cooked with lots of effort, concentration, and joy.

This is how I take care of myself, when I remember. I listen to my body, however petulant it's being, try to get to the root of what I really need and want.

This is the first time I've ever consciously written a poem to comfort myself. It was not exhausting; it was like telling a bedtime story. The concept isn't mine - it belongs to Dara Horn, author of one of my favorite books: The World to Come. This poem takes a setting she describes in that book and just messes around inside it: a literary playground.


The world I'm coming to

(set in the world of Dara Horn's novel, The World to Come)

Daemond Arrindell tasted like honeyed wine, sweetened with blackberries
Tara Hardy, a whisky that left my stomach ablaze for weeks
Karen Finneyfrock, a Merlot
Sonya Renee tasted like a cocktail made mostly of maraschino cherries
and sliced oranges, set aflame with brandy,
Morris Stegosaurus, a martini. No olives.
Mike McGee was chocolate milk with a hint of vodka,
Roger Bonair Agard could only be rum with an aftertaste of jasmine,
Pablo Neruda tasted faintly of rosewater and ash
Patricia Smith was peach nectar drizzled slowly down my throat
Dain Michael Down, a milkshake spiked with almond syrup,
Jack McCarthy, a ceramic diner cup of coffee
that kept me awake long enough to get to Steven Wilbur,
who went down like orange juice with enough seltzer to sparkle.

I don't believe in heaven, or hell. Instead,
I believe in a world that exists in our everyday blind spots,
but is as real as the people I've turned my back on and called invisible.
The closest Jewish name for it is Olam Haba; the world to come.
In the world to come, the people who have lived
mentor and mingle with the people who have not yet been born.
Each has-been introduces a not-yet
to the surroundings of the world to come,
and prepares them for the inevitable:

(In the world to come, every not-yet is sentenced to birth.)

On my first day, my has-been showed up late to pick me up from school.
His name was Aaron, and he was drunk.
He staggered and mumbled his way to the doorstep,
thrust out his hand towards me and jerked his head to the outside.
"C'mon," he rasped. "We have a big day ahead of us."
The angel who was my teacher reminded him – “Aaron,
don’t forget about the drinking age…we don’t let them
into the bar until twenty one days before they’re born for a reason…”
Aaron ignored my teacher and gripped me by the wings,
the way you might hold a child’s ear between a thumb and forefinger.

“Fuck the drinking age,” he told me. “In our family, we start young,
and we don’t let up until the day it kills us.”

By now you may have guessed that the bars and pubs
of the world to come are actually filled with books.
Every writer who has or has not yet lived has a vintage,
left to ripen and mature and develop as they walk and work among the living.
Aaron sat me down near the back,
in a small shag-rug corner and returned
with an assortment of bottles.
“Relax, kiddo, this isn’t the hard stuff.
Go on, take a sip.”

I picked up Shel Silverstein by the neck because he had the most interesting label,
and took a cautious sip. It tasted like carbonated licorice and raspberry,
tickling me from the inside and making me laugh,
I picked up a glass of clear brown liquid and found it to be Dr. Seuss.
It tasted like brown sugar and apple juice.
The bartender raised an eyebrow at Aaron and me,
but then saw what I was drinking.
Aaron glared at her, and said, “Don’t worry, it’s all from the kid’s section!”

“Yah, I see that,” said the bartender. “But what I can I get you?”

“Give me some Dostoyevsky and maybe some Tony Brown to chase it with,” said Aaron offhandedly as the bartender rolled her eyes.

“Curse the day I ever introduced you to the Russians,” she said, wiping down a glass
and filling it with a dark, viscous drink. She set it down alongside
a larger glass of what looked like pomegranate juice. Aaron winked at me.
“Stick with your drinks, kiddo, this stuff is more bitter than it looks.
There will be plenty of this for you later. You’re looking at your future
family here. It’s why Maureen let me sneak you in. She’s been waiting for you to show up.”

I didn’t understand what he meant until he got up and lumbered his way
around the back. He came back with a bottle so small, his hand hid it completely.

“I know it’s against the rules, kid, but I wanted you to see this.
You’ll forget everything while you’re being born anyway – it’s how the thing works –
but well, some people need a little boost. Don’t taste it. It’s far from ready.
I just wanted you to know that it’ll be here when you get back.”

I turned the bottle over in my hands, looking for a label, and found only
the tiniest etching in the glass. I held it up to catch the light, saw only
my name and the year of the vintage.

Maureen came out of the back and plucked it from my hands.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she snarled, switching my bottle for a different one.
A.A Milne, the label read. A 1926 Winnie-the-Pooh. I uncorked it and tipped it back.

It tasted like milk and honey.