A larger aloneness than our own

The Sorrows Of Oregon
For Mary

We name the extra ones, chiding:
John, scootch over here—you’re giving
me too much room, then praising: You
feel particularly good this morning, Mike.

Another half hour in bed delays
the drear of yet another morning
rising alone to made coffee for no
one but ourselves. The singleness
of the sipping becomes as apparent
as a pair of slippers we don’t bother
with anymore. You tell me of your
extras and I confess to having four,
two more than necessary. Or not.

Our dolls no longer require heads,
or arms and legs to gently entangle
with, scentless as sterilized rubber
and treated plastic, save the down
fill of this manufactured loneliness.

Mine have no names as I scarcely
bother any more, yet I whisper
lover things deep in the night and
they don’t seem to mind the absence.



How many of us do this, we wonder,
finding a kind of comfort no matter
what the number so as to feel part
of a larger aloneness than our own.

Three years after returning home to
California, I threw two out replacing
them with new ones. They held all
the sorrows of Oregon in them. One
should never keep such mournful
bedfellows as pillows as they tend to
siphon off our few remaining dreams.

Hold me, William, lie to me again
in that eloquent silence that sings
how deeply you love me more than
sleep, before I make up the bed and
smother you in the ache of making it.

Joseph Gallo
March 30, 2009