Reaching Joy

So High

I stare at you

up on that pedestal

I’ve been building brick by brick,

so brightly you glow,

so quickly you show me

I can know love

by where my heart goes.

So why I am the one who says hello

and you who says goodbye?

Only in the middle

do we meet, eye to eye.

I walk with her

down the road

I laugh at her sarcasm

I get home

and it’s you I’m thinking of,

waiting for time to pass

’till I’m staring up again,

lower now as I deconstruct,

the bricks clash —

you still shine brightly

in that moon glow…

the one I want to talk to,

and keep talking to, and laughing with.

Still its me who says hello

and you who says goodbye,

as if I’m the only one

with a story in my mind.

We’d walk to our favorite spots

and we’d breathe through masks

lined with plastic

and we’d rally for the truth

just like we meant it

and you’d grab my hand

just like you meant it —

greet me on my front step,

even in a pandemic

and offer up one,

brave syllable:

“Hi.”

June 17, 2020

have been listening to the “Have a Great Day!” playlist on Spotify while I run, and this classic 90’s hit has been a favorite: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ElORM9O-0U

New York June

Oh, you have me patient,

my love, waiting for this long

to know if you are out there or not

can’t you not just come around,

show yourself at a party, on a plate —

let me eat you up for our first meal,

then ask you on a date.

Oh, I am so ready

to live without you — you must know that by now.

I am here to live and love and here I am:

living, loving, without you.

Promise me, if you find me,

that you’ll show me what magic tastes like?

Let it glisten in my eyes, sizzle in my ears.

For someone who has yet to fall in love,

you make me feel like I’ve known it before,

like I’ll know it before I see it. The splash

of green; the singing; the silence;

the crash when you collide with me.

Have I seen you before? Read about you in books?

Will I recognize your name? Will I hold you on the train,

head in my lap, knowing this time will not come again?

Oh, I can pretend I have known love, but I’ve only seen

the edges — no body, just shadows

pairing “he’s” with “she’s,” tell me I’m crazy

but I don’t know who I am waiting for, frankly.

The pressure on my hips.

The lunge towards your lips. The hopes.

The kiss that promises me I am more lovable

than I’ve looked so far to a hundred different faces

Oh, I’m waiting here, patiently, for your good graces —

under a willow tree, swaying like leaves,

and you’ll whisper to me,

This is what love tastes like at noon, New York June.

Another store is closing, soon.

I will be happy without you for I am already —

I suppose there is no waiting.

But teach me a song only you can sing me?

For that love, I will be ready.

May 25, 2020

The Kitchen

The ottoman sits, four legged, brown bodied with flowers

sewn in pink and gold, green leaves trailing off the edges.

I’ve seen it every day, this quarantine.

Next to it, the refrigerator stands silver, tall, certain —

more spacious than we could have bet on

for a three bedroom in Brooklyn — humanized with Bernie Sanders;

Fight the Power; Miley Cyrus snickering; my sister and I,

4 years old, playing in the bathtub; a San Diego Zoo magnet.

The fridge hums with memories. And turkey bacon and eggs.

I’ve heard it every day this quarantine.

My sister is my roommate but I do not think of her like that.

Maybe when we shared bunk beds. Now, she reads books,

draws pictures, makes us dragon fruit smoothies.

Kelly speaks in voices that makes us laugh, sits at the table,

types on keys, puts together a puzzle piece by piece.

Thankful the only people I see are the people I know —

they keep the peace, this quarantine.

My heart sits on a bright, blue couch, faux velvet

from Wayfair, the comfiest I’ve ever known.

We have gotten to know each other, this quarantine.

Couch on bottom, heart on chest, thumping, thumping.

I’ve seen the flowers that grow inside my mind,

take their root on the top left side.

Memories carry on the air like perfume, with occasional pollen.

Sometimes, I sneeze. Sometimes, I cry.

Small tastes of grief with each beat.

In this moment, I take the heat, remember that flowers

don’t live forever, they fold with time.

Like spring and winter. Like lonely nights inside.

We all sit together, in the kitchen at noon.

No thoughts between us. Just waiting on the moon.

May 22, 2020

Shame

It’s difficult to look myself

directly in the eyes —

for fear of what I’ll see in them.

Fear? Or his brother, shame.

Yes, I’ll see him sitting in there,

one leg dangling out of each socket.

“Look at what an anxious fool

you let yourself become!” he says,

patiently, all-knowingly.

I walk around with two bodies:

his and mine.

We cross the street, stand in the grocery line.

He speaks a language only I can hear,

often louder in the bathroom mirror.

“You should be ashamed

of what you have become!”

Tips his hat, I move on…

Until I learned to look at him instead.

Note the funny gray beard;

looks like he’s getting old in there.

Clouding the chamber my eyelids keep

nice and warm from winter weather.

I take off his hat and gloves, find him naked

like the rest of us. “You are who I am afraid

to see, for others when they look at me?”

He is the secret I wanted to hide.

Meanwhile, a gentle breeze is flowing inside.

Blue sky peaking out as the old man shivers.

I can see the gray clouds passing —

look myself in the eyes,

and feel the sun,

shining.
more thoughts on shame, from an expert: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psN1DORYYV0

image credit: New York Times

May 11th. 2020

Q-tips

Q-tips feel good when I scratch inside my ear,

try to find what’s living in there.

Is it guilt for being “the golden child,”

my sister running away to the Hewitt playground

because of the dark shadow behind me?

Maybe it’s associations, trauma,

changing the narrative as a practice,

taking gentle effort, taking time?

Idealized stories of my crush, perhaps?

Am I going to dig him out first, then her,

compare their waxy edges on each tip?

I scratch because it feels good.

In the past, it was compulsion.

Now I have the skills to figure as much;

Now I’d rather not feel the anxiety rush,

the fear, the hush, as the world crumples up

before me, slides me back to a time I cannot

return to but my mind sometimes remembers.

Is the Q-tip pushing pressure back,

into my throat, my jaw, my brain cells?

Practice makes…practice. In and of itself.

I see my socially isolated past, sitting,

mentally alone in a purple, rubber-smelling

locker room, see my dad cry when he reflects,

“I saw her cry! And I still let her go, I let her go!”

I see my sister, sitting on the slide, moon glow

settling in on her face,

my brother and I fearful, waiting on my bed,

wondering how to live without her.

How did the playground smell that night?

Was anxiety running through your sixth-grade veins?

Did you find a sense of peace when the police

showed up, brought you back home?

You had a boyfriend at the time.

I’m not sure

but maybe that’s when I started

idealizing you, too.

Your skills with boys, with friends,

getting a laugh, people to care.

Things that matter more than grades and sports and dance —

two steps right and two steps left towards “perfection.”

Contrived. Defected. Just like that college locker room.

I felt so alone, so sad. You did, too.

Twin expressions of a time,

like wax on both sides of a stick

never designed for the inside of the ear.

But I don’t know…

it just looks like the ear is exactly

where it was meant to be.

May 9, 2020

Uncle Sam, Grand Manipulator

Men have manipulated women,

(cis, white, straight, rich men*)

have manipulated humanity

for the past 10,000 years.**

Claims for power.

Manipulation.

Go hand in hand.

Oh yes, I am Sam, I am.

You named specifics and then said no

to the full package. You manipulated.

You played with our desires, men,

And I speak for all when I say:

we’re done.

Dystopias*** all around,

enough stories to run through

the ground and back again

I want to call you friend, men,

but not until you see it in yourselves.

Do we have to do all the work for you?

Moms remember birthdays for you,

Cooking meals, shipping hope for you,

through Clorox wipes and Hallmark

cards? Sick?

Would you call anti-ecological,

anti-biological, sick?

It’s the original sin. The garbage we’re sinking in.

Praise Octavia for warning us.****

I am ready for the ‘topia, the world

that lives and grows and shifts

with interconnection and diversification.

Fuck these men and their manipulation.

April 24, 2020

…

*important distinction – who has the most power in our society? these folks

**origins of totalitarian agricultural, where all this grab for modern power in many ways originates

***watched Wall-E for the first time last night and it made me very emotional…a dystopia, to me, in many ways, circa 2008. Also inspired “the garbage we’re sinking in,” line

****Science fiction writer, who foresaw our current state of events, especially in Parable of the Sower and short stories like Speech Sounds. She wrote many dystopian stories, her version of a utopian story, and I’m ready to live with Earth and humans as we are, in some kind of ‘topia.

Storyline

These television shows

they don’t get old,

just re-installing the storyline in my brain:

date date date, match – compatibility, latch

How about I just be about me for a change,

the only thing I want to do anyway.

Stop telling me to believe in astrology;

Who knows what the stars are telling us,

but here’s to knowing we don’t freaking know

He seems perfect! Connection is strong.

But he won’t talk. Let it be.

She is brilliant, turns me on

But something’s off. Is it me?

It’s all a fucking story!

I want to wake up from the memory

of pairing me off taking forever

and grandparents over the shoulder

and my mind turning over futures

where my bisexual body

is not destined for any one human over another

expect it’s own, hold it to the bone

remind her that she is never that alone.

Let the platonic, opposite friends stay friends,

god damn it! Why you gotta be like that,

changing the script – friends to first kiss

in the final episode. No hints. No slack.

I’m just saying: is anyone else tired of feeling

“unwanted,” “destined for someone,” “somewhere

on the storyline…” when all we know for sure

is that we have one life line, right in front of us.

I am an independent mother fucker

and any relationship I may or may not enter

will be ready to bite back with the same fervor

and readiness to hold themselves close

as they do my hand, had their own doubts

about this storyline, forever planned

by our elders and our neighbors, and yeah —

I want to be protected, taken care of, connected.

When I’m old. When I’m gray. When there is

no other way to drag my feet across the floor

for coffee, or dip my finger in the cup for tea,

or hear my brain talk about little old me.

I want to be my own storyline.

Not alone. Just a single woman. Yippee!

Life: come as you may.

In the meantime, am I alone, for wanting to stop

waiting, and start

living?

Have been enjoying a great sitcom on Netflix for 4 seasons now and the writers decide to make the awesome platonic opposite sex friends/roommates kiss in the final episode. Ah! Total curve ball that I don’t know how to feel about in full. But here are my first reflections… [no spoilers]

April 6, 2020

Slow Love

Let’s not listen to music,

let the lyrics come on their own.

Open the door.

Let the birds sing.

The ground sweat.

You do not always have to be

the dancer, alone in the corner,

swaying under hanging plants

and borrowed words.

Do the birds sing of lost love?

Do the trees dream of what could be?

I ache for you,

even as life spins round before me —

they cannot replace a slow love.

II.

Am I some fool

for longing for you, still?

I am an animal.

No need to feel foolish for that —

I live how I act.

Shakespeare wrote poems, wrote fools

in isolation, listened to birds for inspiration.

Does the love I mold in my hands

have potential to twist into porcelain,

or will it melt under its own weight?

The birds do not need social media.

They have wings.

The trees do not sit in bed till noon.

They have flowers,

growing from their sides.

The ground holds up my mind,

and still your love feels light–

it can escape even a bird’s lips, if not your own.

III.

I crave a slow love

who will dance with me,

who will clean the dishes as I dry,

pop bubbles, look trouble in the eye.

I crave a slow love

who knows we are not broken,

that life is connected and uneven,

like a tango that dips me down,

spins me around, and smiles, easy.

I go out only in my dreams, now–

let you come to me.

And yet you’re still a mystery, slow to start

for a woman used to quick phrases and subtle gazes,

knows the birds won’t die if we stay inside.

Come, sit. Listen to their song. And hum, slow.

I wish everyone health and safety during this time. Be patient. Play your part: stay inside when you can. Know it will pass.

March 28th, 2020

Chance

Tell me what you want, tell me what you choose,

tell me why my heart sings when I look at you.

It’s true…I want you whole.

But you lead me on. You want to laugh, too.

Friends tell me not to hold you higher than the moon.

Are these crumpled up memories playing me a fool?

I beg to differ.

Will you listen to this song one day and never waver?

Now, leave me alone with mother as we wither.

February 16, 2020

Maybe

Maybe my heart feels here,

you there,

and thinks, “some day?”

Maybe it’s wrong

maybe someday

was yesterday

and time isn’t coming back.

Valentines

for shits and giggles

Brooklynites taking the subway

at 2 in the morning,

still procrastinating

over moms’ lack of attention

to birthdays, and holidays,

and love.

Commercially created

or heart debated

love is love

it’s not a maybe

of course I still think about

that time,

park air,

no cares

and different countries

and colliding neighborhoods

and sudden deaths—

but then I pause.

I look up, I look out

at all the realms of possibility.

Because I can’t be waiting

for a “maybe.”

February 14, 2020