Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Remember This

The radiator clicks on
And I ask about the weekend.
you say, 
We are sticking to the point.
Can you let go for today?
On the train
no, I couldn’t.

Images of mountains 
The way the 
sun spread 
across those 
tall trees.
Why not 
let go
like that?

You tell me 
I will remember this.
Like a shitty tuna sandwich.
How are you to know 
what a good one tastes like 
unless you’ve had it
wrapped in cellophane 
at the airport
for $3.95?

I stand 
at the window
My reflection 
stands back,
a ghost.
As I plie
to the back 
of Brooklyn
You say,
We will remember this.

I think of Venice
Hot, yellow sun.
A boat.
A piece of rope
winding around 
a cleat.
And I know you’re right.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012


I first think about smashing something. I want to put my fist through a bigass piece of glass. Watch the whole thing shatter, like a spider web. Like a symphony. 
“Do you have good veins?” the nurse asked today. I am so much more than a long arm with a good vein. I am a fist. Two long legs with boots that click and go THWACK when I kick. I am strong and hard. Tall. When art students paint my portrait, I look mad. One woman painted me all distorted. 
“The hard thing about painting pretty girls,” the teacher said, “is you make one mistake, and they look like monsters.” 
I have learned how to sit in a subway car, tightly packed next to two strangers, our arms touching, and weep without them noticing. Fold your arms. Don’t let the sound come out. 
What made me cry most? One thought, again and again.
I want my mommy. I want my mommy. I want my mommy.