Letter I'll Never Send

J-,

I thought I was done. But here I am, writing to you after months. The thing is, I still can’t hate you. Don’t misunderstand, I hate how you treated me, how you felt you were entitled to hurting me because you’d had a bad day, you were tired or frustrated, you were on your period. I hate how you used what was modeled for you as an excuse as if you were not an adult and therefore, capable of making different decisions, healthier decisions, kinder decisions. “I am my father’s daughter,” was a favorite of yours even as you could see his behavior as hurtful and cruel. You, who so often were there to help your mother pick up the pieces of her broken heart, refused to see how you were inflicting the same pain on me. 

I thought about you the other day. I imagined what it might be like to run into you in town, how you would react if you saw me on the arm of a man. How you would take it as a personal attack that I don’t still call myself a lesbian. I imagined the hateful, angry conversations you would have with your parents, the barbs you would exchange, your father’s choice words. I wondered if he would think I’m a whore too, like he once said of his other former daughter in-law. As I imagined all of it, I was not hurt. I wasn’t even sad. I was amused. It was entertaining to watch three hurt and hurtful people talk about someone else who wasn’t in the room, who had no control over their happiness, as if their choice to remain unhappy and unhealed was somehow her fault. I might have pitied you before. I almost certainly would have felt badly that your life will never include a love that comes from a place of peace, that you will never know how wonderful it is to love someone fully, as your authentic self, and not be constantly afraid to lose them. You will never know a life of your own, without another person to give it meaning, or fill it. You will never know how wonderful it feels to be terrified to start a new chapter, and then do it anyway, and the joy that comes from knowing that it was worth it, even if it didn’t go the way you’d hoped. You’ll probably argue that you do know. You’ll say you were terrified. But, what new chapter did you start? It’s been nearly a year since you moved out, and we sold the condo. In that year, I’ve moved to my own apartment, fallen in love, gotten my heart shattered, and come back to my mom’s to reassess and recoup some financial losses. I’m sure you’ll see that last bit as an indication of failure on my part. To you, it will be proof that I couldn’t do it on my own. I’m sure you have more money than I do. But I have a life. And I wouldn’t trade it for every penny you’ve got saved up. What a pity to have a sturdy and stable safety net, and be too scared to test it. So you’ll stay where you are, choosing misery over contentment because it is familiar. You’ll choose routine because it isn’t scary, it doesn’t challenge you. It doesn’t make you admit all the places you need to be stronger. It allows you to stay deaf and blind to your own inadequacies. 

You’ll see all of this as hateful rhetoric, aimed specifically at your heart. You’ll see all of this as an angry missive that I wrote only to hurt you. Because you aren’t capable of imagining someone speaking from a place of peace. You can’t fathom someone speaking truth kindly. It isn’t the speaker who hurts you. It’s the truth you can’t stand.

I would pity you. I would hate you.

But it’s more energy than I want to spend. 

Regards,

P-

Box Cutter

I took my memories of marriage

put them in a box,

labeled it trauma

and thought that was the end of it.

I boxed up

the scars of a life unloved,

the nights alone in bed,

grateful for the solitude. 

I boxed up

rage at spilled coffee on beige carpets,

judgement of mismanagement of her needs

dismissal of my own.

I boxed up 

years of broken promises,

yeses and of courses meant to placate,

and the hollow in my chest when I recognized them as such.

Versions of myself I'd thought I'd drowned

in an ocean of my own making

are stayed in the corner, drip-drying,

squeezing endless waves of salt water tears from their hair. 

And they are pissed. 

We are pissed. 

I chose compassion.

I chose kindness.

I chose to be relieved that I'd survived. 

Now I am furious that I had to. 

I took a box,

marked it abuse

and placed my marriage inside it.

I covered it in the adventure of a new person,

the softness of his skin,

the warmth of his touch,

the ripple of his laughter.

And then, 

just as delicately as ever,

he held me and said

"The box is still there. And I can't stay any longer."

And now all that is left

sits untouched,

uncategorized,

unprocessed,

waiting for me to tear into it,

gut it,

and when it neatly rearranged, light the fucker on fire.

I took my marriage,

put it in a box,

called it what it was,

and buried it. 

And now I can see

because I've seen what kindness is, 

and I refuse to accept less any longer

I buried the wrong shit.

never to be seen

i am writing.

more and more.

the parts of me 

i put to sleep years ago

for survival 

are slowly waiting up.

they are aching 

and angry

and bitter 

and so happy. 

so they poke me me

pen-swords at the ready

dare me to turn their rantings-

wordless, musical,

primal scream-dances

into a poem.

so i write. 

and i publish.

but some, i keep hidden away

for fear they will further separate me

from that which i desire 

and deserve.

and they stay there ...

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?

divets

My wife and I
have two cats
Callie, who eats herself sick
and Lucy, the runt of the litter Callie had
we assume.
Lucy came to us
barely a year old
small
but not feeble
black
with eyes that reveal
a soul that knows more than it lets on
a heart that has been broken
she understands
she has seen things
she won't tell us what they are
but she quickly grows tired
and skittish of the love and affection
we all know she so desperately wants.
Because she never grew to the size of a full cat
she can't groom herself properly
and she hates being brushed
so we have mastered
the art of holding her down with one hand
and cutting the sticky, thick mats of fur
behind her head
between her shoulder blades
while she screams
she dislikes being held in any way
she screams
as if we are trying to kill her
she doesn't seem to understand,
as we do
it's for her own good.

Six

rolling in the grass
the sun on my face
turning my skin a creamy
warm tan
years before it learned to burn
and my hair
brown all year in school
was a bright auburn in summer
the year my teeth were too big
for my mouth
so I grew it
and filled it with noise
the year I learned
volume can drown out fear
make no one see it
when they turn away from you
call you too excitable
too much
"enough already"

Six
when I fell in love with Gilbert Blythe
and was still afraid
of the Chariots of Fire theme song

Six

30 years ago
and another.

I didn't protect you.

I'm sorry.

things that Karen tells me

it is what it is
that's the god's honest truth
but it isn't unimportant
as that phrase
"it is what it is"
would lead you to believe
"Oh no, my dear. This was a big deal."
this is a big deal
that's what it is
and
like they say
it is what it is.

15

I remember you, Claudia.
Fifteen years after you gave me advice
I didn't understand.
And just as suddenly as you were gone
your words are clear
and they fit.
I remember.
How I wish I could tell you.

Border

They're children.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised
by the callousness
and the lies.
I shouldn't expect anything else
from the men who bowed their heads
for twenty children
gunned down in their classroom
and then bowed out of the conversation.

But again
I say to you
they are children.

They are children
and they are calling for their mothers
they are crying for their mothers.
Jesus Christ, just let them stay with their mothers.

They are children.

Luke

I stayed home
To keep myself from crying
For a man
I'd only known as a boy
With dancing eyes
And a face that smiled
Without stimulus.

I stayed home
To keep myself from seeing
His mother
A woman of faith and music
Laughter and compassion
Suddenly gray and sullen
Mired and muted
Leaden.

I stayed home
Was not in the line
Blocks long
And hours deep
I had already made that walk
To badly comfort a mother
Who suddenly had one fewer son
Than that with which she had started the week.

I stayed home
Because I was depleted
And tired of death.

I was tired
And could do nothing.

I stayed home.

Queen/Church

I met a boy the other day
he had your son's name
and was turning ten
as your son would have
should have
could have
but for bullets.

And I have thought about you
ever since that day
and I wonder
if I really did pass you in traffic
miss you by seconds
at the coffee shop.
Do you even still come here?
Or it is too painful now?

Do you know I wrote you?
Does it matter?
I should resign myself
just admit that I won't see you again
but for pictures
a lifetime of close calls
and missed connections.
It's what so many of us have to do now.

Isn't it?