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.