Jason Koo

A Tower There

So many moments yesterday between
Ana and me where communication

broke down, she not hearing what I said
(I mumble) or not understanding

a certain idiom like “silver lining,” or me
not hearing what she said, as when

we sat on a bench at the Valentino Pier
in Red Hook and she looked off to the left

and said, There’s a tower there, I kept
looking for a tower in the water, seeing

the Verrazano but nothing resembling
such a structure, until I understood

There’s a towel there, a small black towel
draped over the back of the bench

next to her shoulder. I felt our connection
dwindling and didn’t know why,

little things like this, just two days
before, on a Friday, she came over

for Anapalooza, our weekend of celebration
after she graduated with her master’s

(and her family, who was staying with her
for three weeks, finally left) and I was done

with the school year and the obligatory
dept. retreat, and we had incredible sex,

twice, which we repeated the next day,
but perhaps all this intimacy spent together

over more than two nights—the longest time
we’ve spent together thus far—got to her,

I felt her pulling away from the connection
Saturday night when I had to watch the Cavs

play Game 3 of the Eastern Conference Finals
against the Raptors and they fucking lost,

playing miserably, which of course had me
yelling at the TV for three hours, perhaps

that killed the momentum of the weekend,
perhaps Ana was like, Who is this guy

and what is his deal? as the next day
we talked about how when she first came

to New York two years ago she was comparing
any guy she went on a date with to her ex,

impatient with any behavior too different,
the implication being that she’d gotten over

that impatience now, but perhaps she hadn’t,
just as I perhaps have not gotten over

making certain comparisons to my ex,
whose name is virtually the same as hers

but with one more n, as I think things
that bothered me were triggered by memories

of the first flush of excitement with Anna,
how paradisal everything was, how absolutely

immersed in me she could be, stroking my hair, 
running her fingers through my scalp

for what seemed like hours after we made
love, massaging my entire body with care,

whereas Ana even after this incredible sex
will want to smoke, seemingly more addicted

to cigarettes than the intoxication of me,
making me think I’m just a minor intoxication

to her, whiskey and cigarettes and then
this dude named Koo, by Sunday afternoon

she’d switched to cigarettes almost entirely,
not drinking at brunch and having a hard time

holding my gaze when I looked at her
for signs of presence, so when you think

there’s a tower there at the beginning
maybe there’s just a towel there, left

by somebody else, raggedy and limp.
I think I am probably overreacting

to what happened yesterday, I think
probably she had a good time, as evidenced

by her myriad text messages afterward,
probably she’s just feeling the massive

anxiety of graduating from school without
a job in a country not her own, uncertainty

whether she’ll even be in this country
long enough to make this new thing

with me meaningful, I think both of us
are becoming aware of the mundane

creeping into fantasy as intimacy increases,
how less than ideal your partner becomes

as predilections and habits emerge,
Ana smoking or me watching Cleveland sports,

this is an adjustment period, for sure, and
I know I feel this ache because of how much

I feel for her already, how I might
lose her if she moves back to Brasil, how

we might never develop the relationship
we might have had if she were secure

in her job and a little older, looking
for the same things as me. Love is all

a matter of timing, as Chow says in 2046,
a line I quoted in a poem many years ago,

when I was close to her in age, going
through the painful machinations of a love

contorted by bad timing, and this, as
surprisingly painful as it is, is nothing like

that pain—there I go comparing things
again, perhaps the reason I am feeling

this ache is I am feeling the intimation
of that pain again, pain is a possibility

in a way it hasn’t been for the last two years
since Anna, I am feeling nervous and short

of breath, checking my phone periodically
for text messages, absurd behavior, but

perhaps instead of being alarmed I should
be happy that I can feel this way again.

I woke up early this morning wanting
to sing again, a long flung song arising

out of pain, stretching itself nonchalantly
like the sun, knowing a new beginning

is possible if carried forward fervently
out of darkness, out of all you are, making

the pain sustainable, I had the confidence
of things around me, coffee and English

muffins, the cup and saucer on the right
of the kitchen counter, dish for muffins

on the left, taking a butter knife and teaspoon
out of their drawer and setting them gently

in their places, heating the oven and espresso
machine, sunshine on my mind and a big

beauty brewing, carrying out into the streets
and the godly carrying there, a woman

carrying flowers out of my building
and dumping them in the trash, looking

up to see Ana watching her, what was
the story there, did she bring the flowers

to someone who wouldn’t open the door,
was she sent flowers by a guy she hated,

Ana’s intelligence moving through them,
carrying and carrying, to the super saying

hello to a little girl but scaring her
with too much kindness, Ana predicting,

She’s gonna be scared, the girl crying
and her dad collecting her, to another girl

carrying her comforter in a bear hug
before her, her other laundry strapped

on her back in a huge backpack, Ana
saying, I have one of those, and laughing,

to the man carrying his daily living
in a shopping cart, nudging it forward

to the building’s clean row of recycling bins,
taking his tithe and chatting amiably

with the super, Ana saying, I love people
who say hello to each other on the street,

to the cat suddenly in the fourth-floor
apartment window above surveying

the carrying calmly, practicing a higher
nonchalance, to the clouds above not

parting, not carrying our carrying farther
but carrying the sun still in their hazy

laze, to the sun ever more nonchalant
behind them, carrying and carrying

and carrying beyond us, beyond this,
a tower there, unconcealed and still unseen.

--
Named one of the "100 Most Influential People in Brooklyn Culture" by Brooklyn Magazine, Jason Koo is the author of three full-length collections of poetry: More Than Mere Light, America's Favorite Poem and Man on Extremely Small Island, winner of the De Novo Poetry Prize and the Asian American Writers' Workshop Members' Choice Award for the best Asian American book of 2009. He is also the author of the chapbook Sunset Park and coeditor of the Brooklyn Poets Anthology. He has published his poetry and prose in the American Scholar, Missouri Review, Village Voice and Yale Review, among other places, and won fellowships for his work from the National Endowment for the Arts, Vermont Studio Center and New York State Writers Institute. An associate teaching professor of English at Quinnipiac University, Koo is the founder and executive director of Brooklyn Poets and creator of the Bridge. He lives in Brooklyn.