Unsplendid | An Online Journal of Poetry in Received and Nonce Forms

John W. Evans

Spring, 1996

MTV News reports. Jonathan Larson sweeps awards season posthumously, dead three
months earlier
when blood filled the small pockets around his heart. The Whitman-Walker clinic
confirms a first-ever decline in AIDS-related deaths. My brother calls to say he is in love
and did I see MJ knock out the Knicks for the third straight year?
Former Grammy-winner Rob Pilatus is hospitalized. Attempting to steal a car,
the owner clubs him with a bat. A woman I love shrugs, then passes a small wood pipe

carved along the shaft to resemble, I'm not sure, a mermaid or a pixie. The pipe
is hot and I cannot hold it very long. She's already mostly asleep. Earlier,
we eat ice cream at the diner across the street and drive around in her car,
listening to Tori Amos and talking about Guatemala. In a month, she leaves for a clinic:
one last internship before medical school. I drive home at the end of the school year,
wondering how long either of us will really stay in love.

Two weeks later, at a bar in Lincoln Village, my brother says it is more than love
and will I stand up for him next summer? The Bulls take the Sonics in six. They pipe
the news through speakers in the ceiling. Drinks on the house. 72-10, what a year,
will there ever be another team like it? Another player? In an earlier
era, how many titles would he have won? My enthusiasm for the clinical
precision of Michael Jordan, for certain victory, wanes as my brother waves from his car.

For a road trip the following winter, I borrow that same car
but tonight, no luck. The train is cold and empty. Even the moon lacks enthusiasm for love,
shrinking into an eclipse that brightens near the student health clinic
and university shops: book store, coffeehouse, the little cigar and pipe
stand where I mail rose-scented tobacco to my father. I arrive at her work earlier
than I mean to and wait outside, obsessing over the last band posters of the year.

In her small room, I print emails. Make mix tapes. Try to preserve the marginalia of a year
disappearing day by day: ticket stubs, pins, an old watch, a lighter in her car
we look for everywhere. Evenings begin later and later
at Ravinia, Aragon, The Abbey Pub. I fail calculus, sure, but what of love?
Diana and Charles divorce. Van Halen reunites. Eric Hibborn's skull is crushed with a pipe.
The last three days, we speak only in present tense. "Clinic"

becomes the word-plague killing every conversation, so instead of "clinic"
we stick to possibilities for the last fabulous night of our year.
She suggests we drive once more the streets that curve around the lake like pipe
elbows and eat dinner in Grant Park. With sandwiches and fancy beer, we leave the car
and watch the skyscrapers light up like antique toys, try to forget how quickly love
loses its shape, the already-thinning trees, autumn begun again, unwanted and too early.

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John W. Evans
Spring, 1996

MTV News reports. Jonathan Larson sweeps awards season posthumously, dead three months earlier when blood filled the small pockets around his heart. The Whitman-Walker clinic confirms a first-ever decline in AIDS-related deaths. My brother calls to say he is in love and did I see MJ knock out the Knicks for the third straight year? Former Grammy-winner Rob Pilatus is hospitalized. Attempting to steal a car, the owner clubs him with a bat. A woman I love shrugs, then passes a small wood pipe carved along the shaft to resemble, I'm not sure, a mermaid or a pixie. The pipe is hot and I cannot hold it very long. She's already mostly asleep. Earlier, we eat ice cream at the diner across the street and drive around in her car, listening to Tori Amos and talking about Guatemala. In a month, she leaves for a clinic: one last internship before medical school. I drive home at the end of the school year, wondering how long either of us will really stay in love. Two weeks later, at a bar in Lincoln Village, my brother says it is more than love and will I stand up for him next summer? The Bulls take the Sonics in six. They pipe the news through speakers in the ceiling. Drinks on the house. 72-10, what a year, will there ever be another team like it? Another player? In an earlier era, how many titles would he have won? My enthusiasm for the clinical precision of Michael Jordan, for certain victory, wanes as my brother waves from his car. For a road trip the following winter, I borrow that same car but tonight, no luck. The train is cold and empty. Even the moon lacks enthusiasm for love, shrinking into an eclipse that brightens near the student health clinic and university shops: book store, coffeehouse, the little cigar and pipe stand where I mail rose-scented tobacco to my father. I arrive at her work earlier than I mean to and wait outside, obsessing over the last band posters of the year. In her small room, I print emails. Make mix tapes. Try to preserve the marginalia of a year disappearing day by day: ticket stubs, pins, an old watch, a lighter in her car we look for everywhere. Evenings begin later and later at Ravinia, Aragon, The Abbey Pub. I fail calculus, sure, but what of love? Diana and Charles divorce. Van Halen reunites. Eric Hibborn's skull is crushed with a pipe. The last three days, we speak only in present tense. "Clinic" becomes the word-plague killing every conversation, so instead of "clinic" we stick to possibilities for the last fabulous night of our year. She suggests we drive once more the streets that curve around the lake like pipe elbows and eat dinner in Grant Park. With sandwiches and fancy beer, we leave the car and watch the skyscrapers light up like antique toys, try to forget how quickly love loses its shape, the already-thinning trees, autumn begun again, unwanted and too early.
prev - 2.1 home - next