Imaginary (copyright 2001 Sara, all rights reserved)

Imaginary

I got started young
with fantasizing about men in cars.

I would take myself away from my brother and sister
who didn't really like me or want me
because with me there
somebody always had to sit in the middle
and being the youngest
was not a logic I was ever prepared to accept
in exchange for the dishing out
of injustices.

They could fight
and I could be free.
They could hit me, and poke me, and threaten me
and I didn't have to feel them.
My parents could quarrel
and I didn't have to hear.

I was always with someone then
someone who loved me
and wanted to spend all life with me
who wanted to talk to me about the things
we were passing
someone who would share what he was seeing
and mix it with what I was seeing
someone who was always touching me
with kindness.

No one knew I wasn't there.

No one knew my man was there, or which one,
or when I switched them
as I did when someone new
took my fancy.

The first was Peter Pan.
The last was Captain Apollo.

Everybody else had to ride in the car.
With Peter, I flew with tiny gossamer wings
through the never-neverlands of Joshua trees
and stone cathedrals.
With my handsome, blue-eyed Captain,
him with the serious mouth,
I flew through the dark and starry vacuum
in the capsule of a tiny craft twin to his own.

Peter and I held hands.
Apollo and I held open our comlinks.
This was my first understanding of intimacy.

The hope was
that when I grew up
I would leave them all behind.
I would have a man just like one of these
only real.

I never dreamed I'd do it again
take on an imaginary companion
at this point in my life.

I'm not really lonely or unfulfilled
with you withdrawn from me.
In fact, I'm really not ever alone.
When I ride in your car with the seat heater on,
I'm really in the lap of an old acquaintance,
a man with big hands and legs as long and graceful as birch trees.
Sometimes he kisses my neck, and his beard stubble
tingles on my skin.
Sometimes I straddle his cock.
Sometimes we talk about the leaves turning
or the intricate network of bramble branches
embroidering hillsides by the side of the highway.

And you don't know that I'm not there
or that he is.
You don't know that I don't sleep with you anymore
and haven't slept with you for months.
If you cared enough and ever really looked at me,
you might figure it out.
There's no reason why my eyes should close
and my neck should flush
when we're just driving around
doing errands in the suburbs.

But you don't ever look.
You are busy with your own internal quarrels
and passions of your own past
and your own fantasy.
So I do not fear detection.