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My Dead Boyfriend
2024
mezzo-soprano
oboe
piano
percussion
1. congas, marimba, suspended cymbal
2. bongos, marimba (instrument shared with percussion 1), vibraphone
duration 23'
SCORE
After the Tragedy
Bad Judgment
My Dead Boyfriend
TEXTS
After the Tragedy
We put away the dishes.
Someone changed the sheets.
Windows were opened, then painted blue, and painted shut.
We wrote lists and threw the lists away.
We cashed in stocks, and we took stock of our situation.
Someone made stock for soup.
We ate soup, and we ate bread.
We said, Bread has its history.
We said, I can't eat anything.
Someone put the crusts of bread aside.
We left crumbs for the birds we hoped to see.
We called our mothers and found they were gone.
We wrote an editorial.
We wrote to our elected official.
We called the police.
We behaved badly.
We cried out, What about me?
We asked our old friends, What about me?
We called to the four winds, What about me?
We watched ourselves weep in the mirror to see how ugly we could be.
We broke crockery, accidentally.
We lay in the sun like sick cats, full of thin birds.
We rounded our belly in our hands.
We talked about life as shifting sands.
We said, Our sad hands are like sieves sifting sand.
We lost the faith of our childhood.
We slipped a sliver of faith into the lining of a checked apron.
We slipped a sliver of faith into the veins at our wrist, wondering if
it would work its way to our heart.
We sang "Sweet Bird of Youth" and "Sweet Mystery."
Some of us requested leaves.
Red leaves turned to gold.
Water turned to wine as wives turned away from their husbands.
Women turned to each other.
We all turned away from the camera.
We turned our faces away.
We turned in our badges.
We shot up the ranch.
We undid our holsters.
We waited for our fathers.
We called out Papa as though we had just learned to speak, as though
we hardly knew the names of things.
We appealed to reason.
We wrote lengthy apologies.
We unplugged the phone.
We turned off the answering machine.
We found there were more red birds in trees though colors had
faded imperceptibly.
We didn't get up in the morning.
We slept through the afternoon.
We went to bed early.
We dreamed we were dreaming of peace.
We dreamed of forgetting.
We dreamed we could remember everything.
Friends disappeared.
New friends appeared.
No one explained anything.
We said, I will never make love again, then we made love again.
It started raining.
The rain hurt our feelings.
The rain sounded like red birds flying.
We clapped our hands to our ears.
Certain words lost meaning: coverlet, lover, loosely.
The fruit in our baskets turned red with ripening.
Nothing seemed to mean much of anything.
We knew we were no longer happy.
We said, I will never be happy again.
We said it with meaning.
And we found that we were never happy again.
Bad Judgment
It's on the line,
the sun's in your eyes,
the time you thought it would be all right
to go for a drive alone at night,
he didn't mean it,
he'll never do it again,
you can trust him,
I think she's really a friend,
I bet the child will be all right where he is,
it doesn't get dark until late,
I'll take the red-eye,
have the cheese steak,
you keep track of the receipts,
we'll only meet for coffee,
I'll weigh less in a couple weeks,
I'll take the job,
I'll marry him,
I'll see my mother in the spring,
no hurry,
I'm not even sleepy,
I can drive all night, don't worry,
shall we get some cigarettes?
How about chocolate martinis?
Is the water supposed to be green?
It's all right, I'm not ovulating,
it's all right, I'm clean,
it's all right, I haven't been with anyone else lately,
having a baby will bring us closer together,
I can stand another cup of coffee,
let's get a puppy,
let's get the aquarium,
let's get another puppy,
I think that's as big as a dog like that gets,
he's just lonely,
why don't we not plan anything?
If the book's good, they'll publish it eventually,
why don't we paint the whole thing?
We could knock down a wall,
we could dig up these trees,
I think I'll wait to have a baby,
I bet these sores don't mean anything,
my doctor knows what's best for me,
my dentist knows what's best for me,
my therapist knows I'm trying,
I feel I'll never lose you, we'll keep writing,
you're sensitive, that's why you do these things,
I'll just watch a little TV,
I'll talk to him, but I won't say anything,
we'll talk, but we won't do anything,
if I tell him how I feel,
if he tells me how he feels,
I want him to be honest with me,
I only want to know the truth,
not knowing hurts worse,
henna just makes your hair shiny,
it's too overcast to burn,
he's staying for the children,
she doesn't understand him,
they're not even sleeping together,
everybody parks here,
they never ticket,
they almost never tow,
there's an undertow
but you hardly feel it,
this will pinch a little,
this might smart,
you'll only feel a little tug,
are you crazy, they love company!
I don't think she meant anything,
why don't you go talk to her?
I bet the two of you can straighten it out,
if I were you, I'd leave him,
I'd perm my hair,
I'd get that outfit,
I only want what's best for you,
I know you do,
I love you too.
My Dead Boyfriend
I hoped no one would notice anything
as we toured gay Paris,
but I had no need to worry.
My companions didn't know him well,
couldn't compare this to that:
the frigid skin, stiff expression,
his arm frozen around my waist.
People notice less than you think.
I was grateful for the temporary
reanimation of my sweetheart, a final holiday.
though his face stayed gray, unhealthy looking,
and he didn't especially feel up
to visiting any famous French cemeteries.
He preferred clubbing, blowing smoke rings,
ordering drinks, and dancing slowly.
When we made love, he was hard as a rock
but couldn't come, so he satisfied me
and left me feeling a little empty.
The last time he climbed on my body,
I felt a shudder, then the cool semen
finally pumping before he seized up
permanently. On his way to the grave,
he'd wanted to give me something: a baby.
I appreciated these inhuman exertions
and stroked the cold, clenched hands
as he relaxed into the corpse he needed to be.
I could feel his seed inside,
like tears of ice melting.
But what had he given me?
When your man is dead,
can he create something new and living?
No, I would bear a half-dead baby,
whose cheeks stayed rosy
though his eyes iced blue, lips rigid
at my swollen, hungry breasts
as I sang him songs
of the spider and the rain and the sun,
then tucked him in the icebox
to keep him cozy while I cried
myself to sleep, thinking somewhere
mothers are strolling in the park,
not dreaming in the dark mid-morning,
somewhere men don't need to be
resurrected daily, babies laugh and breathe,
and women aren't the only ones living.
Cathleen Calbert