My body wants to meet your body in a dark alley
and say things in Braille. When I leave notes
on your pillow it’s supposed to be a gimmick. Still,
here we are in love, careening toward death like a flower.
Have you ever written a letter, an email, or a text message, and then waited by the mailbox, clicked refresh over and over again, or stared at your phone, hoping for that response, that reply, or some type of vibration that at least allows you to feel anything, but realizing that maybe you didn’t say enough to warrant the acknowledgement for which you’d pined? If yes, you have something in common with Sarah Bartlett’s newest chapbook, Freud Blah Blah Blah. In this short, but direct, chap from Rye House Press, Bartlett digs deep into our intrinsic sense of wanting someone so badly, and even when they’re within reach, not being able to actually cling onto them, or let them know how we truly feel – in love, but “careening toward death like a flower.”
I spend all evening baking you cornbread.
The last thing in the world I want is for you to be hungry.
A few years ago, I set fire – maybe I just threw them away, but fire is such a good visual here – to a box of letters I’d written for someone, but chose never to actually mail. I wanted them to devour every word, and come running to me, but the reality was, I never wanted them to really read them, because I didn’t know what I’d do if that actually happened. Our narrator throughout this chapbook gives me that same feeling: desire to be with the person she loves, but an almost tragic lack of confidence to let them know, or even worse, letting them know, and not having it reciprocated.
Pets are stupid. I’ve never understood why
we want to clean up another animal’s shit.
We already live inside of one that constantly
needs to be fed and cleaned and put down
for naps daily. My hand likes to be held.
I keep telling you.
And then, just like that, we can so easily convince ourselves that we don’t need to be someone else’s “pet.” Then again, maybe we do.