What Kit Is Thinking As Port Lay Dying; And What I Am Thinking Right Now About You Poem by Dennis Ryan

Saturday morning, April 29, 2023; Sunday morning, April 30, 2023s; Tuesday morning, May 30, 2023 at 9: 06 a.m.; Sunday morning, October 8, 2023 at 5: 42 a.m.

"She ate her food with relish … While she was still eating,
she looked over at Port and saw that he was already asleep.
The pills seemed each time to have that effect."
—Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky

She ate her food as Port lay dying in a hotel bed
in El Ga'a. When she had given him his pills,
she thought, "We are one and not one. We are
born alone; we die alone. There are only so many
nights you and I will ever sleep together; only so
many trips we will take together; only so much time
we will spend together. Then—This life is—Life is
finite though we tend to think otherwise, try to fool
ourselves." And now, this Saturday morning, here
are you and I, on a different continent, in a different
country, and no one is dying yet … I brought sage
and mint plants earlier this week, put the pots
on your front steps after knocking on the front door—
I guess you weren't at home again—and now I wonder
if you have replanted them, given them new life in your
garden soil transported by that wheelbarrow of yours.
Do you miss seeing me? I wish I could get in your head
at times to discover what you are really thinking and feeling.
I feel uncomfortable at times having to deal with your
discretion though I realize you mean well by me …
you work so hard weekdays, get worn down. I don't
know when I will see you again, that smile, have the time
to talk, laugh together … How often? For how long?
Life is—finite though we tend to think otherwise, attempt
to fool ourselves. These archetypes—you and I do not
follow in a straight line from Kit and Port; I have no intent,
no intention of dying any time soon—I will take my time,
live fully, here and now—we should both be on this earth
awhile longer. That smile of yours, and that wheelbarrow
you are wheeling full of earth, cuttings—Only God knows—
God knows what else. What else is going on—going on
in that head of yours. You are not making time for me as
you did before, and it leads me to speculate, wonder why,
ask myself questions about your change of behavior, what accounts for it. It doesn't bode well. Does someone have
a hold of your ear? Does your father still police you like
a little girl? I have been thinking you are your own woman,
but perhaps I am mistaken—your fear quotient. If things
things don't change soon, you won't be seeing me again.