Poetry / Words

Open Letter To The Last Person I Will Ever Love

This one goes out to all the lovers, the loved, those who think they are unloved, the dammed, the enlightened… for all of us.

Open Letter To The Last Person I Will Ever Love

On the blackened beaches of the island known as Kona,

the lanterned hands of Pacific hearts
appear in the eyelid of morning –

heavy,
like a seed in your throat
ready to be swallowed,

they arrive with pockets of white stones
plucked from the tongues of highways

and they spell out the names of the people they have lost;
like giant love letters of the Earth
swirling across the volcanic heart of the ocean,
fury in their fingers
as if they could teach the sky about reflection.

Welcome to The Beginning.

I want you to remember
what you were doing with your hands
when you were capable
of not chasing
and not wanting to be chased.

When you are ready,
This is how we will find each other:
stolen and whipping in the wind
crafting the pebbled bodies of our hearts –

I hope that we are more broken than we could ever imagine
so there are more parts of ourselves to know
than there ever were before,
tumbled and blistered by those who could not see us in the dark,
held like a fist of feathers.

We will understand that you only know people in the ages you meet them in
and we will continue anyway,
arthritis in our eyes –

I do not know how it will feel to be myself when I am old,
I am constantly the wrong age for my body –

I do not know if I will ever learn how to thank you
if I will know how to stop speaking Airport
if I will touch you like linoleum

but I will store all of your birthdays somewhere below my shoulders,
so when you wake with ceiling eyes
you will consider my mouth
pressed against yours –

how it is slower than imagined,
how everything is brimming
like dinner on a stove top.

I hope I never dream of you
so I am constantly discovering
what I have.

Overwhelmed every time you glimmer
like the glare of the sun
in the revolving of a door –
the eagerness of unbuttoning fingers,
the buckling of knuckles,
the crushing nature of hope.

You are everything and nothing like what I have waited for –
familiar as a perennial weed harbored in my stomach,

tumbling through each moment
with the feet of bicycles
to devour every part of this country
like a laugh in the night –
fingers of sparklers
teeth of split chins
restless believer in open spaces,
humming and listening
with the sun in your throat –

you don’t ever say much.
You just stand
like a mesa in the desert,
hopeful as the howling of wind against the garage door.

You are the only voice in the night
I will ever call back to –
stumbling everything I’ve believed
like an ocean of stars,
the silence of a first snow,
this notion of home.

I will love you
the exact way I always
wanted to be loved.

And when I lose you –
as death and the nature of men
have promised me I will –
I will find my way to the Pacific,
to the island known as Kona,
a fist of white stones

and I will write you

like the poem that you are.

***

Carrie_Rudzinski_imageNamed “Best Female Poet” and “Best Of The Rest” at her first national poetry competition in 2008, Carrie Rudzinski is a full time performance poet who has performed her work across the United States, New Zealand, Australia, and India.

Her work has been published in such collections as Words DanceMuzzle,OnMag, and Alight. She has released three poetry books: A History Of Silence (2010), The Endless Return Home (2012), and The Shotgun Speaks(2013). 

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