I. To the Living

To Alex
You’re right.
I do cross my
x’s like t’s,
and I always
scribble
something out,
my mind
working
too
fast
for my hand
that the holds the pen
with two fingers
and a thumb,
just like my mother.
The teacher used
to tap my shoulder
every time she saw me
writing like this,
my middle finger
like a movie extra
instead of the star.
I never learned,
and my hands
ache and cramp when I write,
the casualty being the x in your name.
I’ll try to sort out my x’s,
but the scribbles
will remain our constant.

To the Taxi Driver
You always navigate the streets
so smoothly, whether the cobblestone
lanes of Prague or the congested streets
of London.
With ease, speed, and silence
you take me to my hotel,
wherever it is,
wherever I am.
We don’t speak to one another
language and glass barriers
prevent any conversation.
I always stare at the picture
of you, on your permit,
so stoic, unsmiling,
I hope you have a family
and you smile to them.
I gaze at it thinking,
Do you ever slow down to look at the cities you navigate
with alert eyes,
the way I do?
Digesting the city quickly
before another sharp turn
obscures my view.

Dear Self
I bought a box of Jujy Fruits
at Cumbies after the movie
the other night
hoping for them to be stale,
so stale that when I bite them
they get stuck to my molars
on the top and bottom,
momentarily paralyzing my jaw,
and feeling like I may pull a filling out.

I don’t know if I actually love the taste
of July Fruits or even the texture,
I told my husband that they remind me
of family, of sneaking candy into movie
theatres in my mom’s big leather purse
sneaking out the box once the lights dimmed
and then separating
the black licorice ones
and handing them to my big brother
in the dark.

To the girl behind me
Why do you look so forlorn?
Your clothes are wrinkled
and mismatched
as if you slept in them last night.
I can never piece you together properly.
Each time I see you I add another piece
to your shattered mask,
but the angles and curves
never fit one another,
I’m just left with a jumble of broken pieces.
You’re a mystery
but I think that how
you want me to see you
with your lack of hello’s,
puffy, tear stained eyes
that look too small for your face
and smudged red lips that
could be from the night before.
You sit right near me,
listening to the same Putamayo music,
seeing the same people,
and drinking coffee.
Maybe I could say hello,
end this daily passive aggressive
lack of acknowledgment,
but I wouldn’t want to be
the detective
to your personal caper.

To my lover
I grabbed you by the chest
as you were poised on our
faux wooden floor
your face unshaven
with spots of dark and light hair
sprouting sporadically
giving you a little moustache
like a boy just entering puberty.

(We were enquiring as to why our dogs are so small, asking them over and over again, anthropomorphizing them as we always do after we’ve been smoking together. They gave us serious looks, disapproving looks, wondering why their mommy and daddy were giggling madly and asking about their stature.)

I grabbed you and pulled you
onto the pillow strewn daybed
finally realizing you are separate
from me.
I felt your ribs under your skin
the ridges they make on your skin.
I laid my head on your chest
listening to your heart beneath
those ribs
and for the first time felt right
about this experiment
we entered into.

To people
Are you happy in your houses,
with freshly cut lawns
and stone pathways?

Are you happy with shutters,
fences, and patios?
Do you scour the grocery store
circular for deals,
and feel excited when cereal
is on sale?
Have you been saving up
so you can renovate the basement?
Do you take special vitamins
each morning
and drink orange juice
fortified with calcium?

Are these the things
you always wanted,
when you were 10,
20, even 30?
Do you still think about
what you’re going to be
when you grow up,
like I do?
Do you still sleep in
late whenever you
get the chance?

To a girl who is always coming and going
Cheap porcelain holder
with two slots in it
chipped on the corner.
I got it at the dollar store.

My Barbie pink handle
a contrast to your simple
dark blue.
The bristles face one another,
leaning in close.

It’s as if they are
having a private conversation
about what, I can’t tell.

Maybe about our mouths,
crooked or straight teeth?
wisdom teeth or none?

Mine, a complicated girly brush
with a mountain of peaks
Yours, the unsophisticated brush,
bristles even as a plateau.

Now there is just mine,
alone in the chipped
white holder,
leaning in to nothing,
no more secret chats.

I’d always loved
that you put your brush
with mine,
as if that was its home,
as if you were at home.

I wish you’d forgotten
your brush here for mine
so at least one of us
would not be alone.

To Abbot
I miss hearing you
read my poetry aloud
in your Boston-NYC
convoluted accent.
You would read slowly,
putting emphasis on all
the right words, always knowing to end
my poems on a downbeat,
because I like to think
that my endings are
the kicker
as my lover likes to say.

I wonder if you’ve gotten
a new leather bag,
the other one was so worn
the strap had broken
and the color was worn
away but you replaced it
and slung it over your
shoulder everyday.

In your last e-mail
you said, you missed
the soul and zest
of our circle of poets,
but I couldn’t concentrate
on your words, because I was trying
too hard
to hear you compliment us
in your familiar voice.