Friday, September 8, 2017


We can talk about rooms and what happens in them.

We can talk about how in every one I walk into, I am always aware of the doors. The closets. The closed ones. The ones kept slightly ajar. The ones that open on their own, like some spirit just walked in or out. How the door closes behind me and how or when or why it opens. Being trapped and keeping it cool, like I didn't just watch every muscle on your face as you did that. Like I haven't been sizing up the safety of every room I’ve ever walked into from the moment I step in it since age 4. Wondering which person here would tell me to take my clothes off again. Which person here would tell me to touch him there, and there, and put my lips there. And would do that to me. As I silently wondered if anyone would finally find us in this hide and seek game we were playing. That I’m still playing. I'm always aware of the ones who are taller. The ones like him who stand above me, their height a constant reminder of my helplessness and my lack of control. The door handle always being there for me to open, but too far away, everything too high up. Everything - one leap, one doorway, one honest confession away - from freedom. But how can you measure the space
between breaths?

Monday, August 28, 2017

Looking Out, Looking In

“The moon was an orange!” the little girl said –
“like someone took a bite out of it while flying in the sky.”
Without glasses everything was grey and bright, low light
gleaming off of skyscrapers above us. Shadows falling in strange places.
With glasses, a marigold circle in and out of black clouds.
This is what we came to see. To watch one another look up at stars
and wonder why we are all here. Carrying cereal boxes and cell phones
saying things like, “wow” and “did you see it?” and “we should get back to work.”
As if.
As if the work was never out here, with one another, gazing at each other,
gazing at the stars, knowing it was all the same.

Friday, August 11, 2017

We begin tapping our fingers at the same time to some esoteric beat
in tune with the music that hides behind the veil of the universe, the sound behind the sound,
silently and not so silently guiding the waves and tides, the migration patterns of humpback whales,
or the timing of a seagull’s white wing turning as the sunlight hits it above the bridge on the water.
It could be the thrum of the Iroquois water drum, crickets in the thick of summer,
the first solitary notes of Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2,
or the wind in the dogwood trees at the edge of the trail,
Maybe it is the sound of church bells, an organ at dawn,
a child crying in the subway,
the goat laughing.
Likely it is the flute,
and the way your voice lingers on vowels in “I love you.”