Take Me With You Read online

  A PLUME BOOK

  TAKE ME WITH YOU

  © MORGAN SCHULER

  ANDREA GIBSON IS ONE OF THE MOST QUOTABLE AND INFLUENTIAL POETS OF OUR TIME AND HAS MADE A CAREER AT THE FOREFRONT OF THE SPOKEN WORD MOVEMENT. GIBSON (THEY/THEM) REGULARLY TOURS, PERFORMING POETRY THAT FOCUSES ON GENDER NORMS, POLITICS, SOCIAL REFORM, AND THE STRUGGLES LGBTQ PEOPLE FACE IN TODAY’S SOCIETY. A DEVOTED FAN BASE SEES GIBSON’S WORK AS A RALLY CRY FOR ACTION AND A WELCOME MAT AT THE DOOR OF THE HEART’S MOST COMPASSIONATE ROOM. BORN IN CALAIS, MAINE, GIBSON NOW RESIDES OUTSIDE BOULDER, COLORADO.

  PLUME

  AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE LLC

  375 HUDSON STREET

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 BY ANDREA GIBSON

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY SARAH J. COLEMAN

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  PLUME IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK AND ITS COLOPHON IS A TRADEMARK OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  NAMES: GIBSON, ANDREA (POET), AUTHOR.

  TITLE: TAKE ME WITH YOU / ANDREA GIBSON.

  DESCRIPTION: FIRST EDITION. | NEW YORK: PLUME, 2018.

  IDENTIFIERS: LCCN 2017024213 (PRINT) | LCCN 2017035119 (EBOOK) | ISBN 9780735219526 (EBOOK) | ISBN 9780735219519 (PAPERBACK)

  SUBJECTS: LCSH: LESBIANS—POETRY. | BISAC: POETRY / AMERICAN / GENERAL.

  CLASSIFICATION: LCC PS3607.I2638 (EBOOK) | LCC PS3607.I2638 .A6 2018 (PRINT) | DDC 811/.6—DC23

  LC RECORD AVAILABLE AT HTTPS://LCCN.LOC.GOV/2017024213

  Version_1

  For my family,

  which includes you, dear reader

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PART I: ON LOVE

  PART II: ON THE WORLD

  PART III: ON BECOMING

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I

  ON LOVE

  WHENEVER,

  HOWEVER,

  THIS ENDS,

  I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT RIGHT NOW,

  I LOVE YOU FOREVER.

  JUST TO BE CLEAR, I DON’T WANT TO GET OUT WITHOUT A BROKEN HEART .

  I INTEND TO LEAVE THIS LIFE SO SHATTERED THERE BETTER BE A THOUSAND SEPARATE HEAVENS FOR ALL MY FLYING PARTS.

  IF LOVE DID NOT EXIST

  I WOULD BE SO GODDAMN SANE.

  MAYBE

  I NEED YOU THE WAY THAT BIG MOON NEEDS THAT OPEN SEA.

  MAYBE I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW I WAS HERE ’TIL I SAW YOU HOLDING ME.

  GIVE ME ONE ROOM TO COME HOME TO.

  GIVE ME THE PALM OF YOUR HAND.

  HAS YOUR HEART EVER BEEN A HOARDER?

  MINE HAS.

  BUT MOSTLY I DON’T KEEP ANYTHING BUT MY WORD.

  I HAVE NEVER MADE A LOVE POTION THAT HASN’T BLOWN UP.

  TODAY IN THE GROCERY STORE I FOUND ONE OF YOUR HAIRS IN MY UNDERWEAR.

  I PULLED IT OUT IN THE FROZEN FOOD SECTION AND SCREAMED,

  “THAT IS SO GORGEOUS IT COULD KILL A MAN.”

  GOOD THING I’M A LEPRECHAUN.

  LUCKY, LUCKY.

  IT TAKES GUTS TO TREMBLE. IT TAKES SO MUCH TREMBLE TO LOVE, EVERY FIRST DATE IS AN EARTHQUAKE.

  I MASTERED THE ART OF CROCHET AND I CROCHETED HER A WINTER SCARF

  AND ONE NIGHT AT THE BAR I GAVE IT TO HER WITH A NOTE THAT SAID SOMETHING LIKE “I HOPE THIS KEEPS YOUR NECK WARM. IF IT DOESN’T, GIVE ME A CALL.” THE KEY TO FINDING LOVE IS MESSING UP THE PATTERN ON PURPOSE, IS SKIPPING A STITCH, IS LEAVING A TINY, TINY HOLE TO LET THE COLD IN AND HOPING SHE MENDS IT WITH YOUR LIPS.

  YOU

  WILL

  NEVER

  HAVE

  TO

  LOSE

  YOURSELF

  TO

  WIN

  ME

  OVER.

  DO YOU KNOW THE NIGHT YOU TOLD ME YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON MY EARS I SWORE TO NEVER BECOME VAN GOGH?

  (AND LOOK. THEY’RE BOTH STILL HERE.)

  SHE’S A METAL POLE IN ZERO-DEGREE WEATHER.

  I’M AFRAID IF I PUT MY TONGUE ON HER, IT WILL STICK FOREVER.

  I WILL

  NEVER

  MAKE A

  PIÑATA

  OF YOUR

  HEART.

  THIS MORNING I SAW HER LIPSTICK ON A COFFEE CUP AND FELT LIKE I HAD NEVER KNOWN A BRUISE.

  SHE MAKES ME FEEL LIKE I COULD WIN THE LOTTERY WITH A PARKING TICKET.

  IF YOU SEE HER,

  TELL HER THE MOON IS ALL HER FAULT.

  BEFORE I MET YOU

  MY JOY HAD SUCH AN

  EARLY CURFEW

  IT DIDN’T BOTHER GOING OUT.

  YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND, WHEN IT HURT TO LOVE HER,

  IT HURT THE WAY THE LIGHT HURTS YOUR EYES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

  BUT I HAD TO SEE.

  I DON’T CARE ABOUT ANY OF THE WORDS ON THE MAP BESIDES

  YOU ARE HERE.

  RIGHT NOW SHE’S SLEEPING BESIDE ME, MAKING A FACE SHE WOULD NOT WANT TO KNOW SHE’S MAKING.

  CALL IT THE OPPOSITE OF HER MIRROR FACE. CALL IT ME BRINGING HOME THE GOLD.

  YOU LOOK LIKE MARILYN MONROE AND IT MAKES ME WANNA RUN . . . FOR PRESIDENT.

  SHE STILL ASKS FOR MY NUMBER EVERY TIME WE KISS. STILL STOPS ME FROM CARVING OUR INITIALS INTO THE TREE, WHISPERING,

  “EVERYTHING THAT GROWS ALREADY KNOWS WHO WE ARE.”

  YOU HAVE A FRIEND WHO TATTOOED THE WORDS “YOU WISH” ON HER RING FINGER. I HAVE A FRIEND WHO PULLED OUT HER TAMPON ON THE STREETS OF MANHATTAN AND THREW IT AT A MISOGYNIST COP.

  WE’RE PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER.

  I’M NEVER GONNA WAIT THAT EXTRA TWENTY MINUTES TO TEXT YOU BACK AND I’M NEVER GONNA PLAY HARD TO GET.

  I KNOW YOUR LIFE HAS BEEN HARD ENOUGH ALREADY.

  I KNOW THE EXACT LOOK ON HER FACE THE FIRST TIME SHE USED MY TOOTHBRUSH.

  THE NEXT DAY I BRUSHED MY TEETH

  AT LEAST THIRTY TIMES SO I WOULDN’T HAVE TO LET HER GO.

  I KNOW HOW MUCH THE PAIN OF THIS WORLD WEIGHS BUT I CAN STILL TIP THE SCALES IN LIGHT’S DIRECTION WHENEVER I HAVE YOUR NAME ON MY TONGUE.

  WHEN THE ASTRONAUT TOLD ME SHE NEEDED MORE SPACE, I DROPPED MY PANTS TO THE FLOOR IN THE GROCERY STORE, HOPING I COULD MOON HER INTO STAYING.

  WE WEAR OUR TRAUMAS THE WAY THE GUILLOTINE WEARS GRAVITY.

  OUR LOVERS’ NECKS ARE SO SOFT.

  IT TAKES A HELL OF A LOT MORE MUSCLE

  TO STAY

  THAN TO GO.

  I LOVED YOU FROM OUR FIRST DATE AT THE BATTING CAGES WHEN I MISSED TWENTY-THREE BALLS IN A ROW AND YOU LOOKED AT ME LIKE I WAS A HOME RUN IN THE NINTH INNING OF THE WORLD SERIES. NOW EVERY TIME I HEAR THE WORD “LOVE” I THINK, “GOING, GOING . . ."

  IN THE GHOST TOWN OF OUR LOVE THERE IS A PLAYER PIANO TRYING TO PROVE IT CAN MAKE MUSIC WITHOUT BEING TOUCHED. MY FINGERTIPS MISS HER SO MUCH.

  I WISH I WAS THE PHOTOGRAPH IN YOUR WALLET.

  I WISH I WAS THE FACE YOU SHOW TO STRANGERS WHEN THEY ASK WHERE YOU COME FROM.

  I SWEAR TO GOD IF I HAD AN

  ADAM’S APPLE,

  I’D TELL HER TO PEEL IT

  AND TAKE A BITE.

  I DON’T WAN
T TO WRITE ONE MORE POEM ABOUT PEACE ’TIL I’VE FIGURED OUT HOW TO SEW A WHITE FLAG OUT OF OUR BEDSHEETS.

  AS FOR MY HEART I’LL SAY:

  A MUSIC BOX IS STILL A MUSIC BOX EVEN WHEN IT’S CLOSED.

  IF THE TOOTH FAIRY HADN’T COME ANY OF THOSE TIMES, I’D GIVE HER MY SMILE AND SAY,

  “YOU’RE THE REASON WHY I’M GAY,”

  AND I MEAN THAT THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY, AS IN HAPPY,

  BUT ALSO THE OTHER WAY TOO.

  WHEN THEY ASK WHY WE STAYED TOGETHER FOR SO LONG I SAY,

  “I DON’T KNOW. I JUST KNOW THAT WE CRIED AT THE EXACT SAME TIME IN EVERY MOVIE.

  “I KNOW WE BLUSHED EVERY DAY FOR THE FIRST TWO YEARS.

  “I KNOW I ALWAYS STOLE THE COVERS AND SHE NEVER WOKE ME UP.”

  I’VE FINALLY LEARNED LOVE PRAYS IT WON’T ALWAYS LIVE PAYCHECK TO PAYCHECK.

  BUT IT ALWAYS DOES, EVEN WHEN IT’S GOT FOREVER ON ITS LIPS.

  LOVE,

  I KNOW IT IS NOT SEXY TO MAKE OUT WITH SOMEONE WHO CONSTANTLY HAS THEIR FOOT IN THEIR MOUTH.

  I KNOW THERE ARE COUPLES WHO NEVER ARGUE. BUT YOU AND I, WE ARE ALWAYS GOING TO FIGHT FOR LOVE.

  I BOUGHT A TYPEWRITER WHEN WE SAID GOOD-BYE, HOPING TO MAKE A LIFE I COULDN’T ERASE SO EASILY THE NEXT TIME.

  LIKE

  PAC-MAN,

  SHE SWALLOWS

  MY GHOSTS.

  AUTUMN

  IS THE HARDEST SEASON.

  THE LEAVES ARE FALLING LIKE THEY’RE FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE GROUND.

  I’M NOT A PESSIMIST, I’M JUST THINKING ABOUT HOW SHE SAID, “I LOVE YOU,” WHILE I WAS HAVING A PANIC ATTACK AND HOW THAT MEANS SHE’S PROBABLY A LIAR AND HOW SHE’LL LIKELY CUT OFF HER OWN NOSE TO PROVE ME WRONG AND HOW THEN SHE WON’T SMELL MY PHEROMONES AND HOW THEN WE’LL BOTH DIE OF LESBIAN BED DEATH.

  MY HEART IS STILL A LETTER JACKET

  I AM WAITING TO GIVE TO SOMEONE SWEET.

  I WOULD GIVE HER MY NAME, BUT I’D RATHER HAVE HERS SO WHEN THE TELEMARKETERS CALL AND SAY, “WITH WHOM AM I SPEAKING?” I COULD SAY IT ALOUD, THE NAME I WAS BORN WITH BUT DIDN’T KNOW UNTIL I WIPED THE SWEAT OFF HER ARMS ON A DANCE FLOOR IN OAKLAND, THEN LICKED HER SALT OFF THE LENGTH OF MY HAND. DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW SICK A PERSON GETS LICKING THEIR HANDS IN A NIGHTCLUB? I DIDN’T LEAVE THE BATHROOM FOR SEVEN DAYS, WHICH IS TO SAY I WANT TO GIVE HER MY TIME, MY DECADES EVEN.

  MY FIREFLY HEART IS STILL RIGHT THERE IN YOUR GLASS JAR.

  I NEVER TRUSTED ANYBODY MORE TO POKE ENOUGH HOLES IN THE LID.

  I KNOW SOME PEOPLE BUILD THEIR SAFETY WITH WALLS. ME,I’M INTO DEMOLITION—WHATEVER TEARS THE WALLS DOWN.

  I HAVE A HARD TIME KISSING WITHOUT THAT KIND OF DUST IN THE AIR.

  I SEE A WRECKING BALL AND SEE A WEDDING RING, THINK,

  “LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THAT STONE.”

  ASK ME TO GIVE YOU EVERYTHING I HAVE, KNOWING I’LL GIVE YOU MY WORD THAT IF YOU FALL IN THE FOREST WHEN THERE’S NO ONE AROUND I’LL BE THERE BEFORE YOU LAND.

  YOU WANT TO HEAR THE BEST STORY YOU’VE EVER HEARD IN YOUR LIFE?

  I MET A WOMAN AND WE WERE LYING IN HER BED, ABOUT TO KISS FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME. JUST BEFORE OUR LIPS TOUCHED SHE JUMPED UP AND RAN TO HER CLOSET AND GRABBED A STETHOSCOPE. SHE CAME BACK TO THE BED, PUT THE EARPIECES IN MY EARS, SLIPPED THE DISC DOWN HER SHIRT ONTO HER HEART, AND WHISPERED, “I WANT YOU TO LISTEN TO MY HEART SPEED UP WHEN YOU KISS ME.” AND I KISSED HER, AND I LISTENED TO HER HEART BEAT FASTER AND FASTER AND FASTER.

  MORAL OF THE STORY: BUY A STETHOSCOPE.

  YOU ALREADY KNOW HOW MANY POEMS

  I HAVE WRITTEN FOR WOMEN WHO WERE NOT YOU.

  YOU ALREADY KNOW

  EVERY WORD WAS TRUE.

  I DON’T STILL HAVE THE RING YOU GAVE ME.

  I CRUSHED IT WITH A ROCK TO SEE HOW MUCH YOU LOVED ME.

  I LOVE YOU TO PIECES TOO.

  DARLING, WHEN I GAVE YOU MY HEART I GAVE MY LIFE MY WORD THAT IT WOULD NOT BE THE SAME HEART I HAD GIVEN BEFORE. I PUT IN LIKE A HUNDRED MORE DOORS AND A RECORD PLAYER FROM A REAL RECORD STORE. I PUT IN A SKYLIGHT THAT IS ALL YOURS THE DAY YOU PICKED ME UP AND CARRIED ME THROUGH THAT AIRPORT LIKE MY GOOD-BYE HAD NO WEIGHT. MY GOOD-BYE HAS NO WEIGHT.

  I FIND GREAT COMFORT IN BELIEVING ANYONE WHO HAS EVER BROKEN UP WITH ME HAS PROBABLY NEVER GOTTEN OVER MY DOG.

  THAT’S HOW I WAS LIVING:

  DECADES OF NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. AND THAT’S OKAY, AN ACCORDION CANNOT MAKE A SONG IF IT NEVER CLOSES. BUT THEN I MET YOU AND I STARTED FEELING MYSELF OPEN, STARTED FEELING MY YES COMING BACK AND IT WAS THE SWEETEST THING I’D EVER KNOWN. IT WAS THE REVERSE OF BEING HAUNTED, LIKE TAKING A DEEP BREATH AND PULLING THE FOG OFF THE GLASS. MY LOVE, MY YES, DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES A DAY MY GRATITUDE FRAMES YOUR AUTOGRAPH?

  THERE WAS A TYPO IN THE BOOK.

  THE LINE READ,

  “I WANT TO MERRY YOU.”

  I THOUGHT, “THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT I WANT TO DO: MERRY SOMEBODY.”

  MY LOVE,

  COME BECOME BESIDE ME, ’TIL I FIND YOUR FIRST SILVER HAIR IN OUR TUB.

  ’TIL I FIND YOUR LAST SILVER HAIR IN OUR TUB.

  BEFORE I DIE, I WANT TO BE SOMEBODY’S FAVORITE HIDING PLACE, THE PLACE THEY CAN PUT EVERYTHING THEY KNOW THEY NEED TO SURVIVE, EVERY SECRET, EVERY SOLITUDE, EVERY NERVOUS PRAYER, AND BE ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN I WILL KEEP IT SAFE.

  I WILL KEEP IT SAFE.

  II

  ON THE WORLD

  WE

  HAVE

  TO

  CREATE.

  IT IS THE ONLY THING LOUDER THAN DESTRUCTION.

  THE TRAUMA SAID,

  “DON’T WRITE THIS POEM.

  NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR YOU CRY ABOUT THE GRIEF INSIDE YOUR BONES.”

  BUT MY BONES SAID,

  “REMEMBER THE BOY WHO DOVE INTO THE HUDSON RIVER CONVINCED HE WAS ENTIRELY ALONE.”

  MY BONES SAID, “WRITE THE POEM.”

  I AM SO DESPERATE TO LEARN HOW PEOPLE REACH EACH OTHER,

  I CAN’T STOP RUNNING AROUND CURSING THIS CITY FOR THE DAY THEY STARTED BURYING THE TELEPHONE WIRES UNDERGROUND.

  THE TEACHER SAID,

  “SILENCE IS GOLDEN.”

  I SAID,

  “SILENCE IS BRONZE AT BEST.”

  I STOPPED CALLING MYSELF A PACIFIST WHEN I HEARD GANDHI TOLD WOMEN THEY SHOULD NOT PHYSICALLY FIGHT OFF THEIR RAPISTS.

  I BELIEVE THERE IS SUCH A THING AS A NONVIOLENT FIST.

  "SIR. SIR. DO YOU REALIZE THIS IS THE LADIES’ ROOM?!”

  “YES, MA’AM, I DO.

  IT’S JUST I DIDN’T FEEL COMFORTABLE STICKING THIS TAMPON UP MY PENIS IN THE MEN’S ROOM.”

  ANY FEMINIST WHO HAS EVER TAKEN THE HIGH ROAD WILL TELL YOU THE HIGH ROAD GETS BACKED UP AND SOMETIMES WE NEED TO TAKE A DETOUR STRAIGHT THROUGH THE BELLY OF UNCENSORED RAGE.

  ONCE

  I FOUND A BUTTERFLY’S WING ON THE SIDEWALK.

  I WANTED TO KEEP IT BUT I DIDN’T. I KNEW THERE WERE THINGS I SHOULD NEVER FIND BEAUTIFUL.

  LIKE DEATH.

  AND GIRLS.

  WHAT I QUESTION IS THE IDEA OF HEAVEN HAVING GATES—SILLY.

  LAST SPRING, ON TOUR, A FRIEND TOLD ME THAT NINA SIMONE SPENT SEVERAL YEARS DURING THE CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT REFUSING TO SING LOVE SONGS, REFUSING TO SING ANYTHING BUT SONGS FOR JUSTICE AND CHANGE. WHEN I HEARD THAT, I FELT SO CHARGED AND INSPIRED. HOW FIERCE. HOW POWERFUL. HOW RELENTLESSLY COMMITTED. THAT NIGHT, BEFORE I GOT ONSTAGE, I HAD THE THOUGHT THAT I WASN’T GOING TO READ A SINGLE LOVE POEM. I DECIDED I WAS GOING TO READ ONLY SOCIAL JUSTICE POETRY THROUGH MY ENTIRE SET. BUT WHEN I WAS MAKING MY SET LIST IT HIT ME THAT THE SIMPLE EXISTENCE OF THE WORD “SHE” IN MY LOVE POEM MADE IT A POLITICAL POEM. ISN’T THAT CRIMINAL?

  ISN’T IT CRIMINAL THAT LOVE IS A POLITICAL THING? THAT THE HEART IS A POLITICAL THING?

  I VISITED A MEN’S PRISON AND WHEN I WAS LEAVING, THE SNOW STARTED FALLING ON THE BARBED- WIRE FENCE AND I LOOKED BACK TO SEE IF THERE WERE FACES WATCHING IT FROM THE WIN
DOWS. BUT THERE WERE NO WINDOWS.

  AMERICA: HOME OF THE BRAVE HATE.