The Perfect Little Poem: for Drew Huebner

The poet Donald RevAndrew_Huebnerell once read this poem of mine, and told me it was “a perfect little poem.” He didn’t elucidate, and I really don’t know what he meant by this. I wasn’t even sure it was a compliment. Perfect is not always so, as it can mean utterly conventionally perfect. Whatever — said poem was written when I was reluctantly leaving one man while being violently pursued by another. Said pursuant  was the writer Andrew Huebner, left, and, as I suspected from the beginning, I ended up not with him or the man I left, but alone — at least for some years. Proving, I guess, that I was right to feel as I felt in the following:

Jersey Shore

Maybe it is time for me to love a body

without hope of keeping it,

to take your heavy soft solid kiss

and give it back —

to let you wander off, like another brother —

indifferent yet tied.

It’s only moments that I’m after now,

you telling me to Look at you

as I am somewhere between pleasure and grief.

“I am in despair,”  I say,

getting in your car —

Before us the bright April ocean.


Interestingly -on another point entirely — the last time I remember seeing Drew he was waking across 14th Street, wearing a black t-shirt festooned with an American flag.

Drew was from New Jersey/Pennsylvania, which meant a lot to him, while I had little knowledge of my ancestry.

It turns out, I found out not long after Drew, and while living in New Zealand for eight years — my great-great-great Grandfather Joseph Wareham was also from New Jersey/Pennsylvania. He fought in the U.S. Civil War, was injured in battle of Pensacola, and followed on to New Zealand in the 1840s, looking for gold.

About louisewleonard

Author of 52 Men, Since You Ask, and others Also in The Rumpus, Tin House, Fiction Advocate, Gargoyle.
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