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Whale

I sneak upon you, surprising you
from beneath your feet.
From not knowing to knowing,
I grow enormous and fill your field of view,
become your entire world for a few moments.
I press on away from you towards newness,
fading slowly away into the blue and into
the recesses of your mind,
an image of something that was,
but that is no longer so impressive.
I long to rekindle the wonder you felt
the first time I allowed you to see,
but the second time I swim by
you’ll think you remembered me larger.

Brian Fuchs, “Whale” from Scissortail Quarterly #4 (Scissortail Press, August 2021)

Written 29 March 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.Continue Reading

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Adding Names to a Dog

It is all I can do at times when I see you
to not fall in love because you are so handsome,
It is all I can do at times when I see you
to not giggle in glee at how quirky you are.
You arrived clumsily, drunk on beers you keep hidden,
giving new names to a dog I’d known for seven months.
You arrived on the shoulder of a man who is never happy,
a man who needed to be happy.
You arrived lazily, not trying too hard
because you are so handsome.

I am not trying to covet, failing to think
about things that are not you.
I am losing myself in daydreams,
kissing boys who look like you, boys who are you,
but not so much you that I’d blush when you smile.
But I blush when you smile.

You are forcing me to recoil and giggle,
return to dreams that I have been the one to discover you.
My friendships in jeopardy, I struggle.
My friendships melting away, I want you to kiss me
the way I remember kissing you in my mind.
I want you to arrive at my door, drunk on beer
not trying too hard because you are quirky and handsome,
and when you smile I will blush.

Notes

Written 26 March 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.

Brian Fuchs, “Adding Names to a Dog” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)Continue Reading

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Heather
for a friendship I hope has more life in it

She’s liquid.
I grasp for her, for who we were,
for what I wish I could will her to be;
she slips through fingers too ill equipped
to manage with the wetness of our friendship.
In vain, I clutch too hard;
the last of what we are escapes silently.

3.17.2008

David Eugene, look at me when I am thinking of you!

I declare myself a child of narcissism. I’m a disciple,
a follower of the most newly found.

Love is disguised well in sarcasm, in moments of mocking and making-fun.
I only see the Davids of this world for who they are and rarely for who they want me to see,
longing for who others make me want to be,
afraid [at times] of whom they’ll believe me to want and afraid they’ll think it is always him.
Oh David, do you not recognize the idolatry in my loyalty?
Doesn’t my face give away the desire to be looking into my own face as I look at you?

It does if you’d look up and see my eyes, the tears still kept close, pooling in my eyelids.
I became me such a short time ago; being someone else doesn’t seem so drastic.
I wonder why I cower in my corner, shy away into the safety of home
when safety comes from experiencing the world and those in it.
Denial of this truth makes me feel safe, despite so many shouting it like anthems,
begging me to listen

Love means replacing my foolishness with the needs of friends,
an act that is excruciatingly joyous.
David is more important than I am — more than I am.
[so too are the others, whose hearts I meant to steal while I had the chance]
They exist, whereas I seem like mere fragments of their lives, real on their terms.
Reassurance is nice; I’m not looking for pats on my head
like a Lhasa Apso with its head cocked to one side, no attention ever enough.
My needs are basic — understanding and compassion and selflessness;
a recognition of value.

To require selflessness is selfish.
If I am to be the tucked into the shadows, part of other people’s lives, but only negligibly,
then I should be rewarded with love — romantic love. I should and will.
Heartache is trite, but I dwell on it even as I try to set it free,
unchaining my tongue, allowing bravery to escape.
I release my heartache in the name of becoming that person who I see in David,
who has been rewarded for his beauty and brazen spirit
with love and sex, but more importantly companionship [warmth].

I humbly bow and request my turn, giving thanks
for less obvious, yet still true love and for great aspirations.
For life and someone to share my dinners and wine with,
models set by those I so desperately wish I could be, I can still only long and wait.
But I don’t wait alone and my side is crowded with those too ashamed to admit how they really feel.

3.17.2008

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I’d like him to wear boots

(sometimes), thinking they are sexy.

If only for a moment, I should receive happiness. People seem happy when they are in love and I just go about my business pretending not to notice.

Shake me           Let’s go back to sleep in each other’s arms.
.                          Winter is long and too many cold night will keep happiness sounding like a foreign language, unless we never leave this place. Can you even hear me? Even this will one day feel like a distant memory. How lucky other people are, I think, watching your closed eyes dart back and forth. How lucky we are, I guess.

I want to feel taken (for granted).

Sexy, side sore, pierced with arrows;

nothing ever seems to heal,
least of all my
.             heart.

If beauty is on the inside, then rip me open & make love to my carcass. Everything is so random, so predetermined. Discard me, disregard me, ignore me until you need me.

I have secrets to whisper in your ear.

Brian Fuchs, “I’d like him to wear boots” from The Theoretical Tiger Society (Scissortail Press, 2021)

Written 13 March 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska

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Semiprecious

Turquoise makes me sad
because my grandmother is dead.

Notes

Written 15 July 2004 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Semiprecious” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

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untitled [100 days]

It’s been one hundred days
and if feels like it all happened
just this morning.
I’m starting to realize she’s gone –
finally missing her and ultimately
knowing I can never see her again.

I hate that morning –
when Mimi died.
Loneliness overtook me and
pain was invited in.
All I needed was a hug
from Bettina, JD, Travis, Becky,
Mom — but they weren’t there.
I’m cold inside and sad.
I miss her.

6.18.2002

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Bonita

She looks perfect,
her familiar red dress matches
beautifully with the soft pink lining,
the red heart draped around her neck,
as if she’d just come in
from church for a nap
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
She is calm, peaceful.
Tears stream down Papa’s face;
his wife and best friend,
the mother of his children
and the strong woman
to whom he devoted a life,
lies quietly, still the girl he married
only fifty-three years ago.
‘She really is a beautiful lady.’

Notes

Written 12 March 2002 in Stillwater, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Bonita” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)Continue Reading