dulce suenos

to hear her say
m'love, m'dear-
sweet.
this is what it is
to love her
to be her lover.

52 pick up

They built their lives
out of playing cards
with a delicate hand
and a steady eye.
They were careful
not to jostle the others-
disturb the stillness
of all that came before.
He was tall.
She was pretty.
And they built their lives
out of playing cards.

journey

we walked in
the direction we faced
away from the sun and
the water
and the trees.
we walked to where
the land was dry
and undeveloped and nothing
could offer us
shelter.
we walked and
carried what we could
in our arms
on our backs
across our chests.
our legs pushed - pressed
forced us on
begged us to stop
and we walked
until it was all familiar again
then we lay down
to rest.

Liar

to lose myself
in your words
would be absolute
suicide.

contrition

I was young then.
young and primarily stupid-
stupid enough to fall for that line you whispered in my ear
as you sank deeper into your pillow
with that almost-sincere look of admiration
that made me feel-
something-
whatever that feeling was
that made me believe I'd swallowed wet cotton.
But I only stared at the ceiling
and repeated it in my head-
what I thought was beautiful
what I thought was true.
"your soul tastes like butterscotch pudding."
No, it doesn't.
Not anymore.

blue

made of glass
made from sand
their smooth and shiny forms
picked up the sun
and threw blue fragments of light
across the room
on the bed
and the walls
from the bureau
where they stood
and watched her everyday routine.
they watched her tie her shoes
and brush her hair
style it, just so
and wrap herself in pink.
they watched and remembered her-
my grandmother's birds.

outside the cafe

they stood, their hands pressed into their pockets,
one in love with the unaffected other-
discussing, debating,
as their words turned to steam.
then they shivered
and turned,
and hurried off,
neither stopping to look again-
out of love or concern.
and they walked farther on
in search of the other.

respite

in the chair that was my mother's
I can see the ocean.
I can hear the waves crash on the sand
and the gulls as they dive.
I can smell the salt-
taste it as it breezes past my face.
sitting here-
in the chair that was my mother's
my body sinking into the worn patches
making deeper the dents on the arms
curled up in it,
pushing into the cushions that used to push back.
I can see all of it from here.
I can see all of it.
Leaning into my knees
with the blanket drawn tight around my waist
I can see everything.
and I find that I am strangely addicted to vanilla roobois tea

Miller Street

Hill
steep
the hidden house
cement steps
dead plants-
un-watered, because they die
fresh sauce
cedar chests
lilac perfume
stale smoke
Persian rugs
floral velvet upholstered sofas
vinyl chairs
the china cabinet
green counter tops
cream and gold linoleum tile
Christmas-caroling electric lights
identical gifts, in pink and blue
my sisters' laughter from the other room
the quiet,
the security,
the boredom as the adults made conversation.
I was six
then sixteen,
and then we stopped going.

etched

I wrote the names of my grandparents on a piece of paper
I wore like a medal of honor
when I marched in line
with the rest of us.

I write the names of my grandparents
over and over again
lest I forget them-
on pieces of paper-
tucked away into pockets,
slipped between pages of books-
safe.

I will write the names of my grandparents.
I will remember their names.

nineteen

I remember the thrill of you-
your nerves
and excitement
and apprehension.
I could see all the wonder,
everything you must have thought
for all those twenty minutes
and throughout the night we shared that twin bed.
And in the morning,
when you kissed me hello
and goodbye
I walked, proudly, home
and wore their stares
and whispers
and laughter
likes badges of honor
all the way to my small room
with the window that faced the brick wall.

gravity

the weight of it-
pushing down, down,
down upon me
farther into the ground
into myself-
the weight of it
of him pressing into me,
his hip into my thigh
his face against my neck
his hands moving,
moving - ever moving
up, over, around, under
and back again,
no terrain left unexplored-
the weight of it
as I told myself this was what I wanted
this was what I wanted
this is what I wanted...
until it all trailed off
and I waited
and he groped,
and groaned,
and murmured feigned "I love you"s
in the dark
with the dirt caught in my hair-
the weight of it
as I lied that I enjoyed it
and lied that we'd only been talking
and lay awake alone
freshly scrubbed and scented
awaiting-
fearing dawn.

taste

the spice and the sugar
the sweet, sweet heat
in a cup
in a flash
for a moment
then it's gone
until another
and another
and another
until the air is no longer dry
from the water that hangs in the air
and turns the world to steam
and we wait
for the sun to set
and stay there
so we can paint our lips
with cocoa and cayenne
once more.

to dust

the city
shrouded in gray and white
resembles Currier and Ives
gone somehow wrong.
It's the city I've seen
through this window
from this seat-
vinyl and wearing thin,
in the diner I've known
since I was old enough to know something
on my own.
When spring paints the hills
in pinks, yellows, and blues-
or summer dyes everything
a deep, emerald green-
and Autumn turns all there is
to rust and rustling-
it is nothing.
All this is dull
and heavy
and too busy, hot, and oppressive.
But the Winter-
with it's gray and dirt-caked splendor-
this is beauty,
this is the beginning
of the frozen,
and the glowing,
and the shimmering, breathless night.

the women

I watch them all
the old women-
the gravel-voice
cackle laughing former smokers-
grandmothers, all.
they remind me of Clara
how she would have been
if she had be harder.
They see me walk in
still tired and disheveled
a head full of hair that will not be smoothed
they see someone they might like better
than the girls their grandsons brings over at Christmas
I see them-
the lines on their faces
that finally allow them to be honest with each other
I see us
who we will be
when we are softer.

marathon

too familiar
the feeling of unease.
it's unalarming
when it comes without warning.
and it means nothing
it means anything
means everything.
and then how easily it is forgotten
ignored,
shaken off and banished-
where it grows stronger
and stays dull.
and you wait again,
breathe again,
stretch again-
convince yourself again
that it still isn't stronger than you.

the dream

faces of frozen glass
eyes of calm
scan the women
and the children
for a new soul to incarcerate
another body to overtake
overrun
and overturn
to exhaustion.
standing shoulder to shoulder
the silent army lingers
and waits to walk beside her
and whisper in her ear
“imprecazione”.

blood

I have listened to your diatribes-
your well-rehearsed tirades
that you speak at me.
I am not strong enough
I am too weak-willed,
too forgiving-
not demanding enough of them-
too demanding of you.
I have waited outside
for you to return to tolerable.
I have waited inside
for you to deem me worthy of a
"good morning"-
forced myself to be satisfied
comforted by the quick, cold stare-
and the warmth you may eventually feel
that you don't seem to
when I am in your way.
I have felt you watch me
pick apart every move
and roll your eyes in disgust.
I have heard you laugh-
heartily-
at my need to investigate
and my desire to find some common ground
with those whom you despise-
whom I only dislike.
In spite of this,
or perhaps because of all of this-
I love you.
Because it's the right thing to do.
Because I've also seen the true smile-
heard the real laugh-
shared the joy
and seen you cry- hard
when your heart was rended as mine.
And because - no matter how often to say otherwise-
I know you love me too.

withdrawal

I miss the rush-
the floating illusion
the delicate wings
that grow and disappear
and emerge again
to fade again.
the breathing in
of gray heat
the breathing out
of a pure, white lie
I miss the allure
the feeling of power
that comes from
holding your life
in two fingers-
before you toss another piece of it away.
I miss the draw
and the pull
the ache
and the burn-
the euphoric accomplishment
of cheating death
once more.

waiting on Erato

I have sat
and listened,
waiting.
and still

silence.

still

through the gauzy curtains in the living room
everything is simpler.
details are blurred
and more easily swallowed.
the white panels that hang in the window
make all of it quieter.
But only when the sun is down
and on the other side of the world
and the black damask sky
lets all of us forget
and re-imagine-
until the morning
when we all go on.

farewell to suburbia

a slip of paper,
from the stack in her dressing table drawer
blue and delicate
with its glittering monogram
her “M”
his “J”
and their shared “W”,
met him in the kitchen.
she had left it there,
where he would see it
folded over,
next to the glass
and the bottle.
no explanation
or request for forgiveness
or acceptance was offered
no regrets expressed
about the plans to visit Paris
and walk along the Champs Élysées.
she would still go-
he knew.
and he read.
« Je ne vous aime pas.
Au revoir »

student-teacher

i remember when I chain-smoked
paid fifty cents for burnt coffee
because it made me avant-garde-
it said that i didn't care-
and thought i had all the answers.
i didn't-
and i knew that.
i was well aware that i was full of it.
but that rarely deterred me-
never stopped my desire to speak.
i would not be silent.
now you drink the same shit-stain coffee,
fight with the same washing machines
hide the same beer cans
behind the same mattress-
and you sit
and you know it all now.
but you actually might
and i wait to watch
to hear
and listen-
hoping that some of it
maybe just a piece of it
will rub off
via the internet.

the lily guard

unaware they were not growing
unaware they were unsatisfied
unaware that there was better
they sat silent-
biding time.

until she told them to keep looking
gave them mirrors
gave them music
gave them everything but silence
asking nothing in return.

and they bloomed without resistance
pushing past the vain traditions
stretching up and out and over
wanting nothing
but to follow.

and the few grew into dozens
and the dozens into hundreds
spread across the fields and outward
rooted deep
no two the same.

the yellow house

the juice box was mushy from the condensation
and crushed under the pressure of the straw
and the ants poured from the cracks in the sidewalk
up from the mountains of sand-
they charged the roly-poly bugs
and gathered around the cookie crumbs
and the fruit punch that dripped on the concrete steps,
while I captured crickets in a paper cup
and listened to them jumping-
spring into the side of the Dixie fortress
till they stopped,
and I feared they had run out of air.

I hung from the branches of the red maple
and dogwood trees
and wished I could sit there forever
with an orange.
I rolled down the hill in my pink and white sundress
now permanently grass-stained.
I planted the tulips.
I waited each year
for the same, reddish-pink to emerge from the ground.
They still bloom, by the lilacs
hydrangeas and roses
the crocuses, daffodils, irises, peonies-
all of them grow in the place they were planted
but I cannot see them.

I'm gone from that place.
I'm gone from the house and the yard and stairs.
They're there in my place now
and they see what I saw
and have no idea what all of it means.

missing

because today I slept late
and woke feeling sluggish
and achy
and you weren't home
already out,
doing whatever it is you do
and I wondered about that
for only a minute
until it made my head hurt

because the coffee was opaque
and I couldn't work up the energy to make more
afraid that I would make too much
or not enough
if you were to come home and want some,

because the sky was blue
and clear
and the day called to me
"go for a walk, get some fresh air."
but I answered back
without making noise
that I hurt too much
would not accomplish enough,

because the leaves rustled,
tumbled down the road
and the trees cast shadows on the walls
and I hid from them
not wanting them to see that even they-
rooted to the ground
were doing more
and moving more
and changing more than I,

because it was five o'clock,
and then it was six,
seven,
eleven,
and you still weren't here
like you hadn't been here yesterday
and the day before
and the day before,

because people called
and sent me notes
and tried to appeal to my common sense
and non-emotions
to convince me that everything happens for a reason
and that I would keep going
whether I wanted to or not,

because of all of that
and because you were the one person
the only person
who could have
would have brought me some relief
but didn't-
I will hide from the trees again tomorrow
and the next day
and the day after that,
until they don't scare me anymore,
and even then...

The Routine

walking through the Manhattan mist
past the well-to-doers
and liberals until graduation,
I drew my jacket tighter,
stood my collar up against the horizontal rain
and ducked into the deli
for a sandwich made fresh, yesterday
and black coffee in a branded cup.
"Thank you" she would chime.
Each time, the same rhythm
the same, hollow sentiment
the same pasted-on smile.
I jay-walked across fifth avenue
to the horde of student-smokers
nineteen-year old world-changers-
debating politics,
and the economy,
and Shakespeare.
"He's such a bastard."
"What now?"
"I should be allowed to sleep in class. It's freedom of expression."
The glass doors,
fogged from the gray-
swung open
and I breezed past the insecurity guard
and climbed the single-wide escalator
to find a table,
a shadow in which to sit.
The clock ticked on
while I pretended to read Flannery O'Connor
and understand her droning on and on.
And it kept ticking.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tick.
To remind me-
"Make it last. Make it worth it."

Lennon

Wake me up and give me the perfect words-
with your imperfect speech.
Speak matter-of-factly,
truthfully,
of what it was like-
and what you always meant to say
when you said what everyone else heard
and didn't understand.

Or don't tell me anything.
Just come over and sit down in the chair
and watch me sit,
and think
and try to come up with something worthy of a minute's notice.

Trite,
wrong,
boring,
forced-
un-genius.

Tell me what to say, John.
Show me how to write.

the long walk

I asked you once,
one night, walking home-
when you caught up to me at the corner.
it was cool out,
and breezy
and I asked you,
how I could really know
what I should do with my life-
where the happiness was supposed to come from
and when the self-assurance kicked in.
But you never answered me
because I never really asked you.
We only walked
and spoke of the weather,
and what was,
and what used to be.
I made vain attempts at flattery
and eloquence
and you only told me to watch out for taxis.
And you let me walk with you
so long as I kept up
all the way to where the trees met the bricks
and the gates across the street shut at sundown.
But then I was too far North
and East-
and you were right where you should be.
So you bid me good night and demanded I sleep at some point.
And I left the one way street that ran opposite mine,
traced the edges of the park-
turned westward
to the room with the leaky sink
and the dim light
and crumbling walls.
And I sat,
and I waited.
Until someone else I never actually asked-
only told me to think.
And now,
as I am-
with my answer in hand,
I only want to tell you.

And you're no longer where you should be.

Back Burner

She stands - smiling,
perfect.
She arranges the flowers he brought her
places them-
just so
in the crystal vase in the foyer,
a gift-
seen,
registered,
bought, and wrapped
now on permanent display
in the immaculate
picture-perfect home.
With a cake in the oven
she runs back to the world she knew
years ago
when she was another one of many
thinking,
raising hands
raising questions
all too soon raising children
who run in precisely at 3:15 every afternoon
and beg to lick the batter bowl.
So the book goes back into hiding
until tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow.

to a boy

I would have loved you
for her sake.
I would have walked with you,
arm in arm-
kissed you in the rain,
moved across the country
and laughed as you built a picket fence,
while our children-
who certainly didn't get their red hair and freckles from me-
watched Daddy hit his thumb with a hammer.
But I didn't know you then-
and someone may already have taken the job
of loving you.
And she may have liked that person-
respected and accepted that person,
perhaps in a way that I can only hope she would have-
could have accepted me.
So perhaps...
So it doesn't matter.
I didn't love you when I could have-
when I would have
for her sake.

recovery

You'll come over and talk to me,
when you get tired of conversation with the rehab man.
He'll tell you to leave me alone.
He'll tell you I don't wish to be bothered.
He'll say I chose to sit here-
at this table,
in this chair,
with my back to you-
for a reason.
He's right.
I did.

I had resigned myself-
however long ago-
to staying away from this place when I knew you'd be here.
I had told myself that this was a place
I couldn't visit once the sun went down.
But I grew tired of spending my evenings
at home
trying to entertain myself
living vicariously through those who spend their nights here
like I used to.

And, once I realized that you were no longer forefront in my mind-
every day - you - my waking thought-
you - the blurry idea as I drifted off each night.
When my thoughts were elsewhere-
on someone else-
and the memory,
the longing,
the happy grief-
and I was past you and your words
your stare
your desperation that made it hard for me to breathe
and speak-
when you were out of my daily mind
no longer with your hands,
innocent in name only-
wrapped around my neck,
I could allow myself to sit-
at this table,
in this chair,
with my back to you-
for a reason.

Now,
however much later,
I can sit at my old spot
with a book
and a pen
and a thought-
a thought I've not had for some time-
of how I don't hate you
because you aren't cruel.
And I know, as I sit here
at this table,
in this chair
with my back to you
for a reason
that you are watching me-
waiting for an excuse to walk past-
make accidental eye contact.

The rehab man tells you I'd rather not be disturbed.
You should listen to the rehab man,
he knows what he's talking about.
You know that.
But you won't-
you don't listen.
You beg for how it used to be-
and I sit here and wonder
how long I will have to stay away this time.

You beg.

You are such a woman.

The Sophisticated Lady

I loved her -
truly,
truly loved her.
It was never physical,
never romantic,
never reciprocated.
I was in love with her
in the way we fall in love
with future versions of ourselves.
I would be graceful.
I would be warm.
I would be daring,
genius,
hilarious,
revered - respected.
And now-
as I am the future version of my past self-
she is gone-
no longer a physical reminder
of all I have to accomplish.
And I remember
as I am a past version of my present self-
that I love her.

Red*

we talked last night,
she and I.
Well, I talked,
she listened.
Well, I talked,
she stood there.
I spoke and knew she saw me,
but did not speak to her.

I spoke to her last night,
years ago-
when we were both in the same room,
and she told me how happy she was-
proud she was
of me.

We spoke yesterday evening,
years ago-
when I had moved on
and she had stayed where she was for now-
but was almost ready,
almost ready to go someplace warmer.

We spoke yesterday afternoon,
years ago-
when her hair was strawberry blond
from the Florida sun
and she told me how happy she was
for herself.

I spoke last night,
last night-
when she was away from me-
away from all of us.
And I knew how happy she was
that we knew she saw us.

*accepted for publication at amphibi.us

sentry

Look out-
look out past the shore,
past the water
and waves-
look out
past the rocks
and the sky
and the gulls.
Follow them
past the skyline-
look out
and follow the trail that they leave.
Look out.
Look out.
Walk on and look out.
Stand up
barefoot on the shore
in the water
looking out
to the sun
and the blue
and the white.
Sink down
as the water-
all frothy and freezing-
rolls over and under
and back out again
and leaves you there
standing
camera at the ready
looking out for moment that begs to stand still.

ticking

Just one minute.
That's all I want.
I ask for not one second more.
Just one minute-
of quiet,
of rest,
of calm.
Then I'll go.
I will.
I'll leave after just one minute.
Can't you afford me that?
Just one minute.
Just one more chance to look
and blink
and remember.
Then I'll go.

The English Woman

The air smells like coffee and city grit
as I wait for you,
trying to busy myself with letters-
letters I will never send
to people I will never know
written on fancy paper
bright and immaculate-
an interesting juxtaposition
against this backdrop
of a notebook
precariously balanced on my knees
and the sidewalk that sparkles
beneath the dirt
and grime
and gum
that all survive the rain
and the wind
and the snow
and the more and more people.
But you arrive and I remember me-
no longer lost
in the stories these sidewalks have to tell-
and we walk
away and off the grid
to where the city runs into,
around,
over itself,
to that cafe I can never find
unless you're with me.
We sit,
over coffee and a shared sandwich-
you tell me that you think-
as many others also do-
that it seems I love you.
I don't.
I'm sorry,
but it's true.
What you see as my attraction for you
is only admiration
and awe
and a sincere interest in what you say.
And you laugh,
and blush,
and look away-
stammering.
I do not want to be your lover,
I'm perfectly content as your colleague.
I do not require your love-
or even your affection.
I only desire to talk with you more
and more and more
about Charlotte,
Anne,
Emily,
and George-
and our shared adoration
of these remarkable women.

highway

Driving on-
toward somewhere
where it isn't cold
and girls wear their hair up
in high, tufted ponytails-
even in January.

Driving on-
toward somewhere
where fingers don't freeze to the steering wheel
and breathing is easy and painless
where scarves are non-essential accessories
casually forgotten at home.

Driving on
toward somewhere
past here
somewhere ever moving
the point on the horizon
always there-
always, always there
never here.
toward somewhere
driving on.

everything

everything is dirt, dust, and water.
everything-
from it,
of it,
to it.
everything.

it turns to grass, and roads, and people-
and people, and people.
it turns to trees, and rocks, and ocean
and sky and on and on.

it turns to flowers that follow the sun
and stretch to touch it.
it turns to children who watch their mother
and cry to leave her
it turns to a house with flower beds
that grows smaller in rear view mirrors.

it hardens
it breaks
it softens
it reforms
and reforms
and repeats its cycle.

and on and on.

dirt, dust, and water.

it turns to flowers that wither with frost
and lie down in the shadows of the trees
it turns to children who see their mother
and cry when she leaves them
it turns to a house full of people, bearing flowers and sobriety
dressed in their very best blacks, and blank-faced expressions.

and goes to dirt, and dust, and water.

sunday

morning comes after noon.
breakfast of coffee,
lunch and dinner at seven.
it's odd-
when you have this
when nothing needs to be done
when the clothes are washed and hanging-
papers done and filed
bed still unmade-
how empty are your days.
but driving-
with the music,
with the singing,
and the wind-
this could be forever,
should be forever,
would be forever if it weren't for the bills-
the banker-
the bullshit.
so you sit waiting till spring
when it may be different.
wait for the long-planned and spontaneous move.
wait for the certain uncertainty that here-
in August
can still twist your stomach in knots.

alone by the window

poor little cafe girl,
hiding behind in your zip up,
eighteen and and already hating it-
and you're going gray inside.
behind your red curls
you're the girl who hates math
and just wants to be a teacher
but you are learning that you hate children
and they don't seem to care much for you.

if he would just appear in the doorway
make good on his promise
to keep you from another lonely dorm night
with the roommates who despise you
because they think you feel you're better than they are-
smarter than they are-
because you do
because you are.
they buy their groceries-
stock the communal refrigerator
and remind you-
with notes on your dry erase board
that you owe $24.11.
Don't pay it.
Just paint your nails and rebel
against them.

and she waits

she sits-
an hour, a year-
head in hand
lost in lost thought,
sipping tea,
biting her nails,
biting her lip,
biting her tongue-
speaking freely - without apology
to those who need to hear her
but won't
and don't.

She fights-
beats back the insistent,
incessant reminders of someone else-
reminders - constant and casual
sit by her,
ask her to pass the sugar,
how she spent her day,
and if she's busy.

She listens-
over and over again-
to the women whose words drown out her own
and spark her own
and amplify her own.

And she waits,
beside the black-eyed susans
who seem to try to tell her
"It could be so much worse than it is."

battle crier

"Be fearless" she called.
And they heard her.
"Be fearless."
And they listened hard.
And one by one, they joined the others,
and marched along with them-
toward the sun,
ever westward.

She watched them go away from her
towards her words-
reverberating against the caverns,
the hills
the farther places, unknown.
She called them on
pressed them forward-

"Be fearless." she called.
and they heard her.

moment us*

you wake me to tell me it's early
and the radiator is spitting again.
the coffee is cold already
and the cups don't match
they hang on the wall, sit on the table
yellow, red, and white-
each handcrafted and imperfect-
gifts from our mothers-
women who do not know us as well as their concern for us,
women who, since they learned of us, do not speak to us-
not even,
as we often joke they might,
to request that we send back the cups.
and we walk away from all of this
barefoot-
across the cold, pine, tongue and groove-
to where the walls are mismatched on purpose-
paneled, purple, and green.
the city below us
waking with us, before dawn,
keeps its head down
stoops its shoulders to defend itself from the wind.
but for us there is music to be heard
for us there is hushed laughter about dust and keys
for us there is whatever is not worrisome.
there is muffled, mumbled conversation
seeping through the floor vents-
unimportant and not for us to hear
but we sit,
barely breathing,
squinting our eyes to hear it clearer.
i lose interest first
and you go on,
proffering me with unnecessary narrative.
but a fresh cup of coffee
and you're on to the topic of the better taste
when it's french pressed
and how she used to make it that way.
"Maybe we should go to Philadelphia."
i say.
my friend is a chef in south jersey
we can have hospitality on the house
in the house near the museum
we can drink wine and sit on the couch.
it beats coffee that refuses to stay luke-warm in this air.
it beats the hard-backed, thrift store chairs.
it may be better than the unforgiving winter by the lake.
but you look up in time to see the first glimpse of morning orange and pink
and it reflects in your green eyes-
shines on your face
and i stay-
in this sudden spring-
beside you on someone else's discarded futon.

*selected for publication on Girls with Insurance!

amity

I love you.
You have to know that.
I'm not good at hiding things.
You have to have seen it.
You can't possibly be that stupid.
No one is that stupid.
Well - some people are.
But not you.
I couldn't love you if you were.
Perhaps I could
and even would.
But you would be different somehow
and the part of you that demands that I love you
would be diminished
less strong
easier to ignore.

You do not love me
not beyond the casual fondness
that you have for so many people.
Apart from a smile,
a wink
an inside joke that I am thrilled to share with you
there is no other affection.
Somehow though,
and perhaps against my better judgement-
I still love you for it.
That you stay where you are
with her
there
where you should be
away from me
makes me adore you all the more.

Infatuation is a thing so difficult for a person such as me to understand.

set

I am not what you are,
despite my best attempts-
that weren't really my best,
or even good.

I cannot speak prettily
of lions, trains, or jacaranda trees.

You zig-zag the country,
forever propelled forward-
ever moving,
pursuing,
building.

I do not travel beyond the immediacy of here.
I not meet,
greet,
neatly display my piles of accomplishments
on a folding table in a Unitarian Church basement-
despite the people
who need me to love them
who tell me I will.

I am not what you are.
I cannot twist words out of context
into something truer.
That's all you.

All that is you.
And it is beautiful.
And I am in awe.

There is not jealously,
no desire to follow you.

Just let me pay closer and closer attention.
And promise you'll never think me strange-
not more than I am.

And I will listen and listen
and build on my own
of my own
till they are adequate enough
for no one other than me.

On Clark Street

When the leaves go yellow
and hills quit their green
when the stars shine brighter against a blacker sky
and the air smells blue
when the aster stands bright and purple
and the late crocus opens its white and pink petals
when the land rallies before it finally gives in to gray
is the time when the world stands still.

When the air is crisp
and the chill of September creeps in at the edges
when the city walks faster by us
and you wear that thin, brown scarf -
forgetting, as you do every year -
that it will do nothing to keep you warm
and I wonder if I will ever tire of this annual forgetfulness
is the time when the world stands still.

When my mind wanders too far down that line
and I'm somewhere away from you
when the breeze picks up again
and the city breaks its silence
when you slip your hand into mine
and clasp our fingers together
and we walk, as we are, looking forward
is the time when the world stands still.

of late

i can remember - so clearly
the catholic school years
those mornings you'd wake me and make me french toast
my feet never touching the floor.
i remember when childhood tasted like maple syrup and orange juice -
before i liked it that way.

i can remember being that six year-old
before i felt that i had to earn something

i can remember the years that were lean
when you were working,
or busy,
or elsewhere
and i went to the father-daughter dances with no relation of mine
so many times
that when you came that one year i didn't like it
and didn't want to go again
and didn't.

i remember asking you, when i was fourteen
why you spent so much time with people
who weren't ever me
and you told me that they were your family
and you loved them
and instead of feeling anger
or hurt
or anything else one might expect
i turned around and went back to my homework
only mildly shocked by your idiocy
and my nonchalance.

i remember the first time you said you were proud
and at nineteen i had no faculties
no response
nothing but fear
and awe
and slight irritation that i waited for something that was hollow in the end

i remember retreats
i remember camps
i remember ministries that i strained to fit myself to
i remember memorization
and drills
and prayer circles that made it hard to breathe
and led you to think i needed therapy

i remember seeing the fear in your face
you were so terrified that what everyone was saying might be true
and when i asked if that would really be so bad
you only stared straight ahead
afraid to look at me
afraid to admit that i might not be what you expected
what you wanted
want you felt you deserved

i remember being too scared to walk away
making it all the way to twenty-six before i understood
that if things keep you awake
and introduce themselves to you as wrong
then maybe they are

it's strange
i can remember all of these things

i can remember loving you
the way a child does
i can remember hearing you say that you loved me.

i can't remember when i stopped
i can't remember when i gave up believing you
it was that long ago -

wide awake at 3 am

the one way to happy
the way to content
is to listen and hear her
and know what she meant when she said
what she said
when she sat next to you
about living outside
inside
and in two separate worlds
of her own design
that she's had painted green
serenely sublime.

The way is to listen
just listen and here is the answer
quite simple
and clearly a little bit out of your reach
if you don't understand what they say
when they teach you of people who cry when they laugh
about any old subject or two
and a half hour's more and you're already gone
ready for distance and rambling on.

But listen and hear it
it's there, and it's real
and she'll tell you her stories
and surely you'll feel that there's more than you know
and more even still
but you'll listen, intently
and know that you will find the one way to happy
the way to content
is to listen and hear her and know what she meant.

Across the table

Ask me a question,
anything at all.
And I might say yes,
or no.
Or I might go into exquisite detail
of my semester abroad.
When I got horribly drunk on Spanish wine,
and fell madly in love with Carlo,
and Pedro
and Isabella.
Or I might just look away
and smile
and say,
"It's better you not know."

Tower Hill

and the light comes in from the West,
comes in from the glass roof -
through the clear and shining ceiling
begging me to break it.

and it's warm,
uncomfortably warm,
flushed cheeks and shaking fingers
trying desperately to hold a fine line
somehow manage legible scrawl.

It was beautiful artwork outside,
hanging on an otherwise innocent wall -
a white, untouched panel.

Climbing roses - pink and dying on an interior brick face.

But it's too warm for me.
I must be flushed, I feel it.
I feel the heat - the choking closeness of the chewy air.

How inconspicuous can I hope to be -
slumped over in a top that insists it is low-cut,
a lap full of notebook.

Perhaps I made an error in judgement.

Perhaps I need a nap.
How will I make the drive home?
If I am exhausted now -
what can I possibly hope for?

It's breezy now,
and I can breathe.

Dear Someone

I used to think you were crazy.
I really did.
You'd sit in the corner,
headphones on,
music loud enough for me to hear it over the other cafe noise,
and you would read.

"How can you do that?" I would ask.
"How can you concentrate on Victorian Literature with the Beatles blasting in your head?"

And you'd look up, instinctively, because you couldn't have heard me.
You'd get that look on your face,
point to your ear, shake your head and mouth "What?"

And I would wave my hand and sigh -
a much-repeated motion which you always took to mean "Never mind"
but really meant "You're ridiculous"
and we'd go back to our respective books,
newspapers,
crossword puzzles,
bits of paper left over from the day.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the words,
not moving,
not even to see the cup you always easily found -
to sip your mocha chai latte.
"It mellows out the clove." You would say.

And I'd watch you read.
I thought you were crazy.