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  • Estimations: The Lover, and: Aparicion, and: Lover Boys, and: Fan Letter
  • James Crews (bio)

Estimations: The Lover

I counted the minutesuntil he was sleeping,opened up the refrigeratorand used its light to findmy needle kits and pill bottles.I spread them on the table,like a magician with his tricks—Ziagen, Emtriva, Videx,Mepron, Trizivir, Zerit.

Losing, says the scale.Any change? he asked this morningpushing the plate toward me.I shook my head no.If I confuse the numbers—weight, how many, how much—it almost, almost adds up.

When I was done,nausea sawing through me,I looked at the bowlof blackberries on the counter—the last from the yard.In a matter of hours I knewI'd wake him, make himeat every last one of them,their juice already a bruiseon my lips. [End Page 116]

Aparicion

This morning, in a blur of orangeand gray, a robin landedin our blackberry bush.

He pecked and pushedwhat was left until he freeda fat berry we'd forgotten to pick.

He took it gingerly in his beakand spread his wings.I half-expected it—overripe—

to burst before he lifted off,but it didn't. He knewsomething about gentle, about relish.

He drifted up into piled clouds,a further blur except forthe tuft of orange on his chest.

He was a speck against the grayof hidden sun. He was gone. [End Page 117]

Lover Boys

I showered with him this morning, worked lather into his skinuntil it was as pink as taffy. We got out, toweled each other off,my favorite part. He stepped onto the scale holding the wall forsupport and saying words to himself I'd think were prayers if Ididn't know better. But I got on with him this time, our two wetbodies one weight, numbers going crazy until they stayed at 355.We're fat, I said.

He tried to keep down toast and eggs but that face: same as thenight I'd stopped by the corner store on my way home for cheapMerlot and my favorite candy—which he hated—a bag of blacklicorice snaps. That face when I took out a piece, unwrapped thesilver cellophane, but he opened his mouth anyway and I put itin. His eyes squinting, cheeks sucked in. Here, he said, drew meclose and pushed the wet licorice into my mouth.

This evening when we finally made love again, it was so good Ifell asleep after. I dreamed our blankets and sheets were anendless spill of licorice—355 pounds of it—falling from the wall,all I could eat.

Fan Letter

I went to your exhibit last night,saw the installation where you'd takenyour own weight and your lover'sbefore he'd died of aids and madethe pile of silver licorice snapsthat matched the 355 lbs. exactly. [End Page 118]

I loved the way the candyspilled from the corner of two white wallsand I was about to walk awaywhen the guard explained that the artistasked that everyone take a piece with him.I thanked her but said I couldn't,didn't want to ruin all your hard work.

Later on, after I'd left the gallery,I stood outside to get one last lookwhen I saw a man bent over your sculpturepopping piece after piece in his mouthchewing and sobbing.

I want to tell you thatif I could go back now, I'd takeas much of the licorice with me as I could.I'd do exactly what you wanted. [End Page 119]

James Crews

James Crews completed his MFA at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. Other work appears or is forthcoming in Best New Poets 2006, Columbia, and Fourteen Hills. The poems in this issue are from his chapbook, One Hundred Small Yellow Envelopes, based on the life and work of artist Felix Gonzalez-Torres (forthcoming from Parallel P).

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