Delilah Unchained

by Leslie Cairns

Wilted forms of daisy chains fall apart, but we still wear them around our heads, as if they’ll listen to us. As the petals fall near our ears, fall neatly near our chins. I watch the willows whimper, weeping, and repeat the nostalgic litany of questions: Don’tyoumissme?AmIgood?Didyoufindme?

And, Delilah,

Did he ever come back for you? I doubt he did. He wrote the songs with guitar picks, then picked up the purse strings as you took off– glistening –and he kept wondering where you went, Without him.

He was jealous of your travel, maybe, the way the job paid for everything. Or, the way you adopted a puppy and didn’t ask him if it was okay with him–

He was floppy ears and prudent kisses, until you decided You wanted a beast, All unconditional, And newness, And rhythm of fur, and sharing your side of the bed.

It’sokaytowanttobewaitedfor,it’sokaytobecalledout.It’sokaytoleave beforeheleavesyou,it’sokaytoplaythesong–sometimes–whenyou’re stillindoubtaboutyourself.WillImakeit?Wastherealovethatlaidmein thegrass,insummer,asweheardtheconcertsplaydownthestreet,that wecouldn’tafford?

Did he really cup your cheeks and blaze them pink from kisses, did he lap you around the track and tell you to keep running towards the worn Sun; past the restaurant windows of tiramisu, alfredo, shrimp scampi, and other such dishes we could not afford. Not back then. Or, is he on the radio, all the airways, even in the pods

That do not connect to anything, almost as if they are disconnected just like him. & he plays and he sings and it’s on repeat and it’s on every streaming station–

& you just want to throw your slurpee – slush purple and bad for you, iconic– down the screen? Atop his washed out face, his touring place.

Or, maybe you’re still in love with him. No throwing cold in others faces. No words unbroken, daisy chains hung around your door, the kids romping in the yard. The cynic in me dares to think you’re heartbroken–

But maybe you’re not, and you’re still re-playing the way he called you Delilah in your arms: purring, self-awares, as if the world was bad then, as if the way the world squeezed us apart had already come in 2007. All we needed, back then, was a plane ticket to get to one another. We thought it so fraught. We’d buy our cheap sweaters, and our motorcycle jackets and a drink made for sharing, instead of fronting the costs to a red eye flight. Thinking we had time to fall in love, other planes to hurry to & catch, like a stubborn, toddler-like fever.

Now, we know,

The separation hadn’t even begun. The Longing hadn’t even started. The way the cemeteries became bloated, unfed, canaries never sung. Held in storage centers, nursing homes, and mass burial graves that were once storage containers. Where kisses were 6 feet apart, and we were never allowed to cough into our sleeves for fear of losing ourselves, forever. Where we stayed apart from strangers, and we listened to the music, apart, in our own heads. Twiddling our thumbs

Dreaming of the falling, lost loves

Of the cities.

#8 Write the poem of your teenage dreams.