Scene from divorced life

"I am so tired of hearing about your assault."

"Do me a favor and get a job while I'm at work today."

"Why don't you ever think?"

These are the moments that my mind plays on repeat

on evenings when I am desperate for sleep,

afternoons when I am in someone else's arms,

mornings when I am just waking up.

The anger that you smeared over everything

doesn't scrub away,

despite my best efforts.

And I am left with a soggy,

stained bitterness,

as my only means to clear away 

over a decade's worth

of dust and neglect.

I am hopeful that bitterness will eventually evaporate

and not leave a greasy, cloudy film

on this life I am earning.

So far, it seems to be.

But every so often,

there is a splinter in the wood,

and my dust rag catches

pulls up larger pieces of debris

and I have to stop

fish the sliver out with a needle

and tend to another wound.

This is arduous.

Greif.

Mourning.

Not the marriage

but the misery. 

I wish I could hate you.

But that was always more your style.

Sting

the sun rose this morning
turned the blue shadows to lilac
and painted the winter as spring
for a moment
before we all felt the cold again
no longer able to trick ourselves warm.

We grew toward the rising sun
pointed our faces skyward
waiting for what it would give us
wondering how long we had
before it would be dark again.

Mid-morning sun

It's so hard,

the beginning,

where everything and nothing feels real

and my mouth struggles 

to hold in the words I am terrified to say

because how can I know I mean them

If I've never known what they mean?

It's too soon to understand it all, sweetheart.

Trust the little you know. 

Sooner or Later

I sometimes wonder
if the things I know
will ever prove useful outside the trivia game inside my head
if knowing how many brothers you have
will somehow be viable information
and if imagining a bond between us
one that ties us together
will ever be anything other than
something I keep hanging myself with.

I wonder if there will ever be a reason
for you to look at me
that way I wish someone would
that you could
because you're kind
and gentle
and all the things I need.

I wonder if there will ever be a time
when our paths not crossing
won't irk me
if I will ever give up
the imagined brunches
shared laughs
ragged nerves made smooth
by your quiet compassion.

I wonder if you will ever read the letter
the one I sent the only way I could
when the world stopped
and your city
that was once my city
our city
went into hibernation
and we wondered
separately
if we wold both be around
to see it wake up.

I wonder a lot of things
on days like today
when I am safe at home
and the air is gray
and cold.

I wonder how you are.
I hope you are well.

Those 15 months in acting school

I miss coffee bought off a truck from a man who never isn't smiling.
I miss sunrise on W 70th street.
I miss sunset in Washington Square Park.
I miss my city,
even when I'm there because my old neighborhood was 20 reinventions ago.
I miss my home.

I miss walking from class to home, 

the quarter of a studio apartment I shared, 

with a communal shower, kitchen, lounge, 

the cafe across the street with the classical pianist, 

and kind waiter, 

warm light, 

and soft chairs. 

I miss the water of the pond in Lincoln Center, 

outside the Vivian Beaumont, 

and the library. 

I miss the security that the plaza allowed me. 

I miss how the rest of the city faded into background noise, 

and it was just me on a bench, 

resting in the memory of the first time I traveled into the city without a chaperone, 

and saw the play that changed my life, 

the first of two, 

both dance shows. 

I miss floating back onto Broadway and 66th street, 

watching television stars, 

movie stars, 

Broadway stars walk past, 

and genuinely not caring about any of them because they were just people, 

except that one, 

and no, 

it isn't who you think.

I miss the fleeting feeling that I knew who I was.

I miss the dreams of the someday brownstone, 

next to the perfect hole in the wall restaurant, 

and the expertly curated shop of always perfect gifts to bring back on long weekends, 

both permanently shuttered.

I miss Variety and Backstage, 

and the Candle Bar. 

I miss the cafe on the corner, 

and the bakery down the street. 

I miss how the air smelled when it rained in August, 

and how that was enough to make me forget that I was unhappy.

I miss the laughter. 

I miss the hollow in my stomach, 

the arch of my arm in ballet, 

the self assuredness in my voice when I sang. 

I miss the view from the second floor, 

the way the arched windows with multiple panes,

always dirty,

reminded me that I was just one person in a line that stretched back decades. 

I miss the promise I made myself. 

I miss thinking I was unstoppable.

I miss my city.

I was alive there.

What women do

My mother called off her engagement
in 1967,
I think.
I have no idea why
but I can guess.
She didn't love him
more than herself
did not want a life with him
more than a life of her own.
Maybe she could tell
that a marriage
to my father
would be years of disrespect,
and that wasn't the kind of mutuality she was looking for.

Again, conjecture.

I never even knew that she did it
until my father announced
he had asked for a divorce
and my sister and I breathed
for the first time in our lives.

That's when I was speaking to him.

Before he asked his forner brother-in-law
to help get the union annulled
in the church
so he could marry again
make his children bastards.

Not that any of us
kept in the tradition
of Catholicism.
Not that he ever married again.
Not that he ever saw the annullment through.

Before I came out
and he panicked
that his youngest
was buying a white dress
well, ivory.

Before I called him out
and called for help
and then stopped calling.

But this isn't about me
or him.
It's about my mother
and her mother.
"This is why we send you to college."

And then it was 1968

My therapist says ...

My therapist says I am sick
In the kindest, gentlest way I have heard it
Her words do not bite
They do not scratch
She says I am sick
And I am healed.

My therapist says she does not know
How I got like this
Says she can't determine
Which piece is pulling the strings
And which is just tied up in all of it.

My therapist says I am safe
And I want to scream
I want to scream because that safety
Is lovely
But does not follow me to the car.

My therapist says I am on the fast track
And widens her eyes when I tell her
I feel stagnant.
Maybe she does not know
I have been waiting for someone
To help me unpack this box of trauma
For decades
And it is heavy.

My therapist calls me my dear
Organically
And it sounds foreign to me
A pet name I have not earned
And I have it etched into my skin
So that one day it may be mine.

My therapist says to have patience
My therapist says to honor myself
My therapist says to focus, ground myself.

My therapist says I am sick.
And it is the kindest thing I have ever heard.

Hands

my hands were small then.

I miss them that way. 

Small, smooth, and clumsy

They did not know work

or keyboards

or steering wheels

had only held my mother's hand

as she stared straight ahead

half ready, half remiss
for the day when she didn't need me to hold on
could trust I wouldn't run off
or be carried away.

My hands were small then
and made worse the mess
as they tried to straighten and clean.
They had not yet mastered nimble
and were too soft
all putty and dough
to tie shoes
without getting caught in the laces.

My hands were small then.

I miss them. 

Searching

My life is a collection of old receipts
and black pens
that I can never find when I need them
they're somewhere
with my glasses
bought,
paid for,
missing.
Eye strain and stress
Too much caffeine and never enough sleep.
At least I keep receipts.

I Can't Help It

They’re moving my desk at work

The one in front

Perpendicular to a wall of windows-

To parallel

Directly across from the glass double door

My escape route

Along the side wall

Into the back room

The warehouse

Outside to the tree line

Behind the dumpster

Won’t be accessible

And I wonder what pictures

My wife will submit to the news station

Our wedding day

The first time I held Kendall

Two days old

Will I have finished graduate school by then?

Will my wife be murdered before I am?

On her way to work? Home?

On a bagel run?

Who will know what pictures to use for me then?
Will there be anyone left?