Erasing “Pals”

Erasure poems contextualize and complicate the narrative essay “Pals: The Married Man and Me.”

#1 (slap)

He loves to forget
everyday action, cartoonish
grin fixed, quiver lips
daring–He winks.
He loves his wife,
safe cover,
a perversion
says nothing except:______________________________________

If it hurts, swim in text
process
narrate how he looked at me
the preen
looping flashing inches of flesh
thighs peer
Imagine the hem of my dress

I wished for birth of new pain, grease our good time

The married man got mad at me for telling stories
his wife, slapped, I should leave, he said
I never considered, our friendship so beautifully devoid
We are the bad hurt

One night, I look up

#2 (she and she)

His wife, you can trust
with a secret
away, slipped into silence,
just cling
seemingly jealous, except we
tell our[ ]selves can be a problem
OR
not-a-problem!
… but what if you like to hurt?

                                                                                 Friends avoid seeing                                                                                                                                             a thing experienced

Who I need to be is: not hassle, on my side, everyone has a good time

                                                                                 We owe it to people we love
                                                                                    to try not to listen

The outburst looked like ____________________________

                                                                                                                   We watch the skies
                                                                                                        lack is all that matters
                                                                                          “i love him and he loves me”

(that’s still not enough)

#3 (a poem for me)

He loves mine, me, when I make a good joke, when I’m looking at him. I fantasize. It isn’t a stretch. He loves brushing up against me.

His wife says nothing.

We do the small stuff. It’s no big deal. Except it hurts. How he looked at me, hearty, unconsciously. He pulls up his shirt. My eye is sexualized. My thighs and breasts imagine him. Specific want. Slip up. Kiss me. Full.

I’m calculating the married man. Just the two of us. He told me all about his memories. I am always telling myself. We would have fallen in love, gotten married, had babies.

I love him and he loves me. We’re playing house. He starts to touch. Palm on palm. Skin. Arms. Shoulders. Hip against mine.

He said, Be careful if you and I get any closer.

We’re approaching his wife.

He says, you and I are forever.
He says, I love you.
He was wrong.

[source]