To Sweet Jane

When Lou sang about you, you were young. Life mysteries shimmered in front of you like gifts, like rubies, like beaded water on your lover’s back.

 

There was time then, bowls of it. You smoked them. No one understood you then and that was just the way you wanted it. You knew it was true. No one could understand.

Jack did. He read Rimbaud to you on Sundays with Patti Smith playing in the background. You wore his jeans. You were both so skinny. You had a yellow cat named Melody and she would purr when you spoke her name. You would say it over and over. “Melody. Mel. Mel. Melody.”

You thought love grew. You loved the metaphor--love is a life, is living.

Sweet Jane. Awww. Sweet Sweet Jane.

And then Margo changes the song. You’re not done with the rubies and bowls of time, but suddenly, they are gone. You wake up and there you are on a tightrope.

Don’t look down.

Jimmy’s not there. Jack is gone.

Sweet, sweet Jane.

You have never felt more lonely. The airy guitar behind you. The slow bass. You have forgotten how to daydream. One foot on the rope in front. One behind.

Don’t look down.

Jane, this is what I know: love doesn’t grow. It’s an ocean. It’s a ride. It’s a play. It’s the stage we play upon. It’s the audience we play to. It’s the clerk we give our money to when we walk away with the Camels we said we would quit smoking. It’s tomorrow morning when we quit. It’s tomorrow night when we light another. It’s everything we try to burn. It’s everything we burn. It’s the last chance we have and the first time we know it.

You think I don’t know you, but I do. You think no one understands. But everyone--everyone--understands.

Sweet.

Sweet.