If you should come and find the front gate faded,
It is because I never painted it white.
If you see the garden is filled with dead flowers,
It is because I did not tend to them.
If you see the mailbox filled with letters,
It is because I never had one address.
If you don’t see the little dog anywhere,
It is because I never had one.
If you should notice that my husband’s car is gone,
It is because I never had a husband.
If you should find no empty milk cartons on the porch,
It is because I never drank them.
If you look around and notice there are no children,
It is because I never had any.
If you peek in the windows and see the house empty,
It is because I never lived here.
You see, I never stopped studying the Graveyard poets.
And I don’t drink milk.
The boys sell water and fresh juice out of shopping carts
Lined in plastic filled with ice
Their words blend together
Passersby stop to talk to eat some of the ice
They rub it on their arms and hands
One seller stands by his cart his wife and daughter
Sit nearby the child sips a coke and waves
A quick whistle rings out and the boys move
Carts covered and pulled away
The father hurries deeper into the park with his cart
The girls stays with her mama and stroller
Starts to cry in his absence
Her mama holds her hands her another coke
She stops crying after the police on horseback pass
And he returned with his cart
January 20, 2016
On this day, I find myself looking back. To the last time I watched an Inauguration. I remember I was in chemistry class and my teacher turned the lights off. She brought the large projection screen down and fiddled with the remote. A student had to get up and help her put it on the right setting. The room was so dark and I was smiling in it. I felt safe in it. Cocooned in warmth. I wrapped my sweater around me and leaned forward on my desk.
I remember wondering how nervous he was. I remember I didn’t like the poem very much. I remember how it looked cold in DC. I remember the slight rise of veins on his forehead. I remember the class tittering when the lines got messed up. I remember realizing how nervous he was.
I didn’t wonder what the next Inauguration would look like. I wasn’t looking forward. I was trapped in this warm moment. I didn’t know I would be 25 before I saw one again. I didn’t know I would be in New York. I didn’t know how angry they would get. I didn’t know how angry I would get. I didn’t know what it felt like to march between stopped buses and cars. I didn’t know the pain you felt in your arms when you raised a sign for three hours. I didn’t know how easy it was to ignore that pain.
Today I try my best to look forward. I try to remember where I will be tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. We had our plans laid out. Down to almost every day. What are we doing today? What are we doing next week? What are we doing for the next four years? Will it be more than four years? I wonder what our next Inauguration will look like. I wonder who I will be looking at.
This short prose piece was published in Quail Bell Magazine in 2017.
We met at a whiskey bar in Williamsburg. It was our favorite meeting spot because we could both get to it easily from our apartments. Her from Bushwick, and myself from South Slope. It was strange that we lived in the same city but hardly saw each other. The few neighborhoods that separated our apartments had seemed to grow and swell in the last few years.
“What is her name?” Kate asked. Continue reading “Kate & David”
I hear the train but I do not see it
At work it whizzes by and I look for it
In bed I hear it as my mind begins to touch dreams
I go to the window and listen again but it is gone
Nothing but the internal hum as it departs
Or is that my body humming longing
For that sound the sound I no longer hear
But I know it is there somewhere in my home
Town it promises movement travel an eternal
Rumble of change or perhaps I miss only its sound
Which I heard from my bed as a child it was comforting
But maybe only in the sense that the world moved
Around me while I lay still
The girl next to me speaks softly timidly her words unsure
As she asks if she can practice her English on me the first
American she has ever met she recites like a perfect student
The words lilting and accented with strange syllables when she
Speaks to her stoic parents her voice becomes its natural state
Flows from her tongue and lips like a reluctant diver who hesitates
Before the jump but then feels unimaginable euphoria as she falls
When I tell her I live in New York City her hand
Flies to her heart and she sighs simply says Dream
Her breath smells of butter and fats a mouth
That has never tasted the bitterness of cigarettes
The smell of someone who is well fed and warm
She takes my right hand and inspects for a ring
She tells me she is an atheist and has told no one
She tells me she wants to go to New York to see
I do not correct her
*This poem was published in Minetta Review in 2016.
As I lay on your chest the bones underneath seem to stretch
The skin and protrude more drastically and dig at my sides
Like your bones are trying to touch my bones your collar
Bone to my skull your hip bone to my thigh your rib
Cage to my chest it could be so easy to find it uncomfortable
To find the skeleton too jagged the flesh unyielding
But when your hands touch my cheek my hip the space
Between my neck and breasts it is only softness
During the ninth month of the drought, the lake began to dry up. She watched from her window as the water receded, like the ocean before a tsunami. It seemed to happen in fast-motion, right before her eyes. The murky water crept back, revealing every smoothed stone, every decaying twig. Everything, except him. Continue reading “What You Lost”
I jump in without taking a breath, without thinking. The thrashing bodies in front of me were daunting at first glance. But as I watch, as I observe the way the torsos sway and swell together, the way the arms and legs flail about, it all becomes strangely inviting. The man above us screams and wails, his throat hoarse, forehead drenched in sweat, we bathe in the shower that comes down as his head hammers the beats. Slight pains form on my skin from other bruised bodies that whack! against my own. I whack back and I feel things coming out, departing my body, from the bruises that form. Sweat, shouts, adrenaline, anger. I laugh.
Suddenly my body is thrown forward and two masses converge upon the hand I have extended to catch myself. I hear a snap. Looking down, my wrist looks twisted in the red lights.
The doctors ask how it happen and roll their eyes. Kids these days… My sweat covered body shivers when they tell me I will need surgery. I’m going to have a metal plate in my wrist. I smile. Metal in my wrist, how appropriate. The doctors place my arm in the cast, squeezing my shattered bones back into place. “Was it worth it?” they ask.
“Hell yeah, it was.”
This poem was published and recorded in the album/zine Progressions, created by The Horn RVA and Amendment Literary Journal. Link to recording here.
I watched all those family films, with the mother, father, two children, dog, and was always struck by the scene where they record the children’s growth on the wall usually on the door jam in notches and blue ballpoint pen with the age Sally 10 years Sally 12 years Matt 6 years Matt 9 years and they lived in that house for so long that they changed in it and everything inside got smaller but stayed the same and years later when the kids come back they see the wall notches and remember something and I remember when I measured my sister on the wall of our newest apartment and filled it in with pencil and mom told us to erase it because we rented and the landlord would charge us and it didn’t matter much anyway because we moved a year later and then again two years after that and so I never had notched walls.