In May of 1995, I was dumped by the love of my life.

(collective groan)

Yeah, I know, everybody has their sob story. The point is, if I have my dates correct, I wrote this poem the day before it happened. Basically, I wrote this poem, went to his house, had what I remember being a lovely evening, and the next morning he rolled over and dumped me. On May 11th. Mother's Day.

I swear I didn't see it coming. But... it's kind of spooky.

5/10/95
Tell Me, Sappho

“It is no use, Mother,
I cannot finish my weaving.
You may blame it on Aphrodite,
for she has made me near sick
with love for that boy”

Let me ask you: how does the mind control the body?
Where is the battleground of intentions? Is it, as one
philosopher said, in the pineal gland? Or is it some
angry Goddess, whispering in our ears, moving our limbs like

marionettes? Example: I sit at my desk, working, actively
thinking and typing and correcting, and suddenly, I stop.
Some word I wrote - “sofa,” or “green,” some random idea, or
even the act of writing itself - has brought him to mind.

I fight distraction - too late. My work, my office, the
very building in which I sit, disappears, my hands become
weak, and my eyes cloud, lids drooping. Thoughts of him
break over me in waves, as I rest my chin in my hands,

steady, cool hands, very much like his. Was it “sofa?” I
see his sofa, worn and faded, where we first kissed, in his
living room, with out-of-date furniture, and the lamp with a
green bulb... Maybe it was “green.” Green like the shirt I

wore that night, green, like how he made me feel, with
newness, and energy. Green, my favorite color, which has
many meanings, growth, disease, shamrocks, M-n-M’s, and
mildew... My mind wanders farther and farther away, in his

direction, while my work sits, waiting.
So tell me: why does my mind override my
hands? It was so last night, as I went to dial his number,
but thought worse of it, and didn’t. Where is the

connection? I may not dial his number, but may not work
either? I must spend my time thinking of him, but may not
reach him? Of hands and thoughts, I often feel my hands are
wisest, more sympathetic. I should listen to my hands, work

at the office, dial his number, touch and hold things, reach
high into the sky, because it feels good, but my thoughts
drown out the cries from my hands, and so they hang, limp.
Hands don’t obey every thought, but they have no freedom

either, and my hands and I, we are not puppets, but pets.
Caged, corralled, repressed, restricted, restless, raging red
and white nails and skin, lips and teeth smiling and
smoothing when I should bite and scratch and fight -

No. We don't fight, do we, my hands and I? They wait, I lie, and
we lie in wait... Tell me, Sappho: Couldn’t you have
sweated it out? Could you have finished your weaving?
Could I have finished that report this afternoon?

Could I have dialed his phone number?
Could I have gone to him?

The Pineal Gland?