another friday

he was a cliche:
stale cigarettes and
a flippant kiss.

i was a foregone conclusion:
a little wanting and
a little too much wine.

it didn't matter.
or mean.
it just was.

later,
i called my best friend
to complain:
it was a failed attempt -
and not a good one at that.

Like pastry

we have a lot of
work, you and i.
repair work.
remodeling.
wall demolition if you will.
reconstruction, even?
call it what you will.
but i will say,
in the name of
full disclosure,
that tonight i had
warm baklava and
vanilla ice cream
(with a fork)
and thought of you.
and didn't want to
throw anything.
so that's an
improvement.
right?

It's true, mom.

Seriously.
I am in
so
much
trouble.
The rest of me
just
needs to
catch
up
with my head.

a tuesday night.

i mailed the ring back
in a fedex envelope
i tell alex
over brie and vodka.
no note.

(we always tell these
war stories when we
get the chance to catch up).

he's incredulous.
please tell me you insured
that shit
he yells at me.

(he's very pragmatic).

i shrug. the part that was
worth anything to me
at all
was long gone already
i say.

(broken by him).

and then,
on cue,
the phone rings.
i show alex the caller id
and roll my eyes.

please let me answer it
he yells, two drinks in.
i'll say something brilliant like
ren cant come to the phone
she's a bit under the sheets

(at the moment).

and i laugh at him
and love that he's there
and go check on the lasagna
i'm cooking for dinner.

anniversary

it's the end of october
which means its you.
everywhere.
you're everywhere and
we don't even live in
october anymore.

i'm not sure where we live
but where ever that place is,
you have some of my stuff
and i want it back.

you get to keep a lot of things
a lot of our things.
a lot of the things that were us.

like the records we bought at
lakeshore the time you flew in
secretly for the weekend.

and the collection of ginsburg
that we read on our first date.

and the cornfields at at night - you can have them.
along with plaid picnic blankets by the beach
and flying kites in the snow.
i don't want them and mostly
i don't want to fight about them anymore.

and you can have vivaldi.
i only pretended to like that shit anyway.
kind of.

but you don't get the smell of leaves burning.
or the feel of the wind on my face while i ride my bike.
or my lasagna recipe or miles davis.
seriously. i'm not giving those up
so back off.

and i'm not going to give up the
playing in the rain gutters without an umbrella or
the sound of wine glasses clinking together either.
it's non negotiable. i'm not playing here.

i'll give you the smokey dark corner at our favorite bar
and i'll even give you playing soccer in an empty field at dusk.
you can keep june with its water baloon fights
and february and its crocuses.
and may with its broken promises.

but not october. october can't be yours.
not anymore.

busy lately.

mom asks,
"what, are you putting
your phone number
on bathroom stalls
or something?
(you've been busy lately,
young lady)."

and i say
hey, mom, things happen fast.
(life is funny
that way if you ask me).
one day it blows
and the next
it's blowing you away.

lines

sometimes
i can't find the line between
"getting to know you because I think we
could be friends"
and the ever-elusive-hard-to-detect
"getting to know you because I think we
could be headed for that thing in between."

in fact, i never know where
that line is until i've crossed it
(like so many other lines that
have become muddied for me).

it's the same (anxious?) feeling that i get before
i start a new painting - like,
i don't want to mess everything up
before i know what'll be created in the space.

John

used to do this little thing
when he gave us money
(sometimes)
for the holiday and
(sometimes)
for no reason at all
where he'd slide the perfectly
creased, crisp currency into our
hands through an almost suave handshake
(smiling).
his money always looked just so
(good)
what little he had of it.
he was a veteran with diabetes and a bad knee
and lived
(simply)
with his sister Anna, neither of them having
(married).
we would have tried to stop him from giving it to us
(long ago),
my brother and I, but we didn't have the heart.

Conversation

You said,
"I love you."
And I said,
"I love the way you write."
And we both knew
It was over.


There were other clues-
Things we didn't pay attention to
Because---

Well, you know why.

Like,

You always knew all of the names
Of all of the stars and their
precise location across all skies and
all seasons. You knew their patterns.
I knew their stories.
Just their stories.
My heart could hear the song of Cygnus
and laugh at the vanity of Cassiopeia.
I was always more occupied
With syntax than surface.

And we both thought we had the
better end of the deal.

Dad, Scranton PA.

The Ford Motor Company used to sponsor the NFL and the
Regional Punt Pass and Kick Competition that I won at the age of eight.
I got my name and picture in the city paper
And a brand new football helmet and shoulder pads,
In the packaging and everything—
Very exciting for a kid who was used to getting hand-me-downs.
And my father, a WWII vet who worked at a glass factory,
Looked me in the eye and said that he wished I had come in second.
Money was tight that year and the second place winner got a
Philadelphia Eagles winter coat.

Bodoni

Wants to be Audrey Hepburn
And has legs for days.

Audrey Hepburn? How so?

Well, she's unassumingly charming.
Dresses to impress without really trying. Makes a room stop spinning.
She likes to wear elegantly decadent Givinchey gowns, often in
Delicate textures and bold colors—Crimson chiffon, for example.

Where does she go all dressed up like that?

Sometimes to the opera.
Sometimes to the diner for coffee and yesterday's apple pie.
Sometimes nowhere at all, stays home vacuuming.

Seems like a waste of star-quality to me.

No way.
To be perfectly honest,
I think she's at her most beautiful in
Simple, stark, stunning black—
Slim-fitting cigarette pants and scoop neck sweaters.
Taking in a matinee in an empty theatre,
Throwing popcorn at the screen in delight.

What kinds of movies does she like?

Well, she's into the classics
Obsessively.
And she finds Miles Davis
As irresistible as a rainy Saturday spent
Curled up on a chaise lounge,
Reading F. Scott Fitzgerald with a cup of herbal tea,
One hand absentmindedly playing with the strand of pearls around her neck.

Is she married?

No. "Traveling." Like Holly Golightly.

Minion

Is often mistaken for pretentious when really he's just
A quiet intellectual, careful not to offend, content with his
Own bookish ways.

So he's a recluse?

No, he's just comfortable with himself.
The silences in the moment between public and private
Don't bother him much.

What does bother him?

Spelling mistakes.
And when people say that things are ironic
Simply because they're unfortunate.
Or irreverent students who turn down the page corners in their books
And doodle in the margins. Sacrilege.
He teaches Art History at a small liberal arts college
In Vermont and wears wools and tweeds and
Coats with patches on the elbows.
He doesn't smoke a pipe, though, like many of his colleagues.

Any reason in particular?

To be quite frank, the reason is an aesthetic one.
He's fastidious about oral health;
Obsessed with keeping his teeth sparkling white.
As a child, he thought he was going to be a dentist.
Then things changed.

How did they change?

When he was sixteen, he saw this painting by Andrew Wyeth
of a young woman in a pink dress stretching,
Reaching towards a farm house on a hill,
An endless expanse of field ahead. She's crippled.
He couldn't look away; it haunted him.
It's a personal thing.

Why?

Because he's that girl in the field. Just all grown up and dressed in tweed.

found, out of time. and on an unrelated note,

found, out of time.
and on an unrelated note,

kristin and i took the train into the city,
ate lunch on charles st. and felt trendy
even though we're not those people.
this was followed by strolling the streets of
beacon hill, swooning at charming
brownstones with wreathes on their front doors
and stopping to take a photo in front of
john kerry's house.

because sometimes we are those people.

we parted ways and i found myself
walking towards "home" in the dusk,
pausing in front of st. john's
just in time for an evening mass.
i didn't go in, of course.
lately i feel like i've lost some of my faith.
left it on the subway
along with my talent, my favorite pair of gloves
and the collected works of gwendolyn brooks.

and i feel careless about that.

two days ago i saw a marine jogging in the rain
wearing a shirt that said
when in doubt, empty the magazine
and i started crying, heating my cheeks
and catching in my throat hoarse with
the feeling of the thing.
my tears were inconsequential in the deluge.

which is the way things are, really.

and as for the me and "the republican," alex and becky
say yes, its considered dating.
i say, i'm not so sure, and,
if it is, then i'm not ready. besides, he drives a
fancy car and he drives it too fast.
i'm told that a cool car is a cool car regardless
of how multi dimensional your personality is.

it's just not me.

bryan got me to smoke tonight--
further proof that this month is my
blanket excuse for doing stupid shit.
i inhale and let the smoke out slowly
breathing it back in a second time
(i recycle everything/one why is that?)
i tell him that one of my issues of late is that i
hate that i still let some things hurt.
the second has to do with "the republican."
and finally, that i think that i broke a bone in my foot.

and we focus on the third because it's solution is easy.
let's go to the hospital he says. i say no

let's see how it goes.

billy collins

darcy died on wednesday
and by sunday i was
wandering through the
poetry section of the harvard co-op
looking to fill some holes
with the latest billy collins collection
when an attractive graduate student

(good-looking in that "i just rolled out of bed
and stepped into my converse sneakers" way)

saw the books in my hand
and asked me if i was a fan,
immediately interested

no, actually, i answered

then why so many collins books?

i took a deep breath to keep from crying
and said
because he doesn't make me work
so hard to understand the point.

Communion

Communion

Dad always said that I was like the Impatiens planted
In the front flower bed—sensitive but resilient,
Reliable with a low tolerance for frost.
Many a Sunday we'd shed our
Church clothes and saddle shoes for
Grass stained jeans and ratty old sweatshirts and
Spend until sundown gardening.
He knew all of the names of the
All of the flowers and could
Intone them more naturally than Hail Mary's and
Our Father's. And I liked reciting the flowers back to him
Better than reciting psalms and rites at
Mass anyhow. After all, out there I didn't have to
Wear a dress or sit quietly, waiting for hymns as a
Reprieve from the silence. Out there I could get dirty and
Question as much as I liked.
Dad would kneel in the sod and tend to his plants with a humble
Touch– the lines on my father's hands told of the
Canons of the earth with an inspired
Grace. And when he cupped his hands full of dirt just so, I
Wondered why we bothered to go to
Church at all—this was his communion, his
Life from life.