{ Mark Cayanan: But What I Really Want To Say Is. }

[delga]

But What I Really Want To Say Is
Mark Cayanan

I am showing you my life. It is afternoon
as I write: The summer has given up its sticky heat
in place of rain, premature but as gray

as ever. I cannot see far
or as deeply as where you are, but when I tell you
what I tell you, you must believe me.

I am showing you my mother, the way she rearranges
furniture you wouldn’t even think
the wood’s been eaten into. When I tell you forgive

her skittishness, I rely on what you know
of the term. Similarly, you must understand
that I choose not to speak of my father. Similarly,

you must understand when I tell you several stories
about my father, each annulling each.
I do not intend to be true,

only truthful. I am showing you how
I have loved: not enough, or too much, the result of both
being termination. But when I say

there were days when my cheek pressed against
someone’s sweaty back signified
forever, I mean for the moment

to be acknowledged, I mean there have been
a few, and they have all felt the same. I am being sentimental:
I know no way to speak of the self

without amplification. I am showing you what the bruise
on my thigh means. I am showing you
the implication of a sigh, behind a sneer, and what the proper

response should have been. I am showing you shame,
string it up and place it around your neck. Most of all,

I am telling you what I want is for you to tell me
It is mine, too. Not an epiphany, not a punch line,
but a mirror, but a kiss, but in the air, perfume, effluvium.