Thumbprint

She was the blue car 

on the inside 

of the innovative electric circuit, 

the black racetrack 

with yellow lines, 

knowing it was

easy to outstrip her opponent

if she could play her hand right,

a red mark on her thumb

from trying too hard -

the car once again jumps the tracks - 

damn.

Fortunately, her concentration broken, 

she acknowledges 

the intense feeling of relief 

that accompanies finally, truly

exiting the endless, anxiety ridden 

circle of almost-logic 

that defies conversation,

thoughts motivated by 

"rational decision-making"

that undercuts, undermines

true emotion. 

Or perhaps it reveals the truth, 

because without emotion

it's not a fun game anyway - 

who would want to play?

So, this time, she chooses to be the red car 

on the outside of the track, 

slows her breathing,

presses her thumb down,

and envisions a different outcome.

the catting hour

  4 am is the catting hour.

she stretches and watches
two little bodies pad away,

happy to have roused her.
fluttering eyelids register the clock,
her mind grasps at wisps of dreams
and a peaceful warmth spreads
from the tips of her toes
to the top of her head
and she rolls out of bed.

but, first, she smiles.

Eddie Money

$12: enter a grimy back room

$8: two tiny cranberry vodkas

$4: check your winter coats 

$2: tip jar

then we bathe 

in the pulsating lights

that transport us to the 80s

where Eddie Money

echoes the sentiments 

rolling through our bodies, 

(anticipation is running through me)

then a phone call, too much booze,   

something happens that ruins the fantasy

(I don’t want to let you go) 

and we re-emerge into the freezing air,

and kiss against a chain link fence on Ave B, 

(I can feel you breathe)

until I am suddenly faced 

with emptiness and a dead end

(I get frightened in all this darkness) 

baited and switched

for a pretend

version of myself,

trapped in a corner, called crazy,

searching, waiting, wanting,

(I get nightmares)
please, just take me home.

Chaos to Couture

Hello, are you there?

I'm waiting, standing

in the middle of a room

surrounded by mannequins

with orange hair wearing slashed cotton

reattached with safety pins,

and Patti Smith's Horses is playing

and the lights have dimmed

to reveal, written in washable marker 

on the esteemed walls - 

the kind of marker you were allowed

to use as a kid just in case you wrote

on yourself, on the floor, on your bed -

a specter of a revolution, it read,

"Punk is about revolting," 

and I ditched a pink stilleto,

"revolting against a society"

and I stretched my toes,

"against a society that doesn't"

and the security guard eyed me, 

"a society that doesn't think you deserve,"

and told me to put my shoes back on
"doesn't think you deserve a revolution,"
and I walked into a long hallway where

placed on pedestals were row upon row

of the now quintessential little black dresses

claiming to be the beginning of retro,

and I stretched onto the balls of my feet

and extended myself through the space

until under duress,

I sat in the silence and

placed one shoe back on, and then another,

and bathed in the fading glow

of a an era that had once decreed its independence,
but was now being declared useless

and ending its revolt.

May we?

Can we choose,

are we allowed

to walk this way,

talk this way,

dress this way –

are we, by necessity,

women

born into bodies

partially prized since birth

for the possibility

of the continuation

of the cyclical rhythm of female time,

the body as vessel that produces

the next generation

of women,

who produce the next

generation of women

who finally dare to ask,

Are we allowed to dress as a man?

Are we allowed to be feminine?

Are we allowed to love other women?

Are we allowed to love many men?

Are we allowed to become men,

(and what does being a man even mean?)

to physically alter the body that promises the future

because we feel our spirits chose

wrong this time around?

May we? Can we? 

Are we women?

(and what does being a woman even mean?)

May we take our bodies out of

the collective investment

in the future, symbolized

by the Child, who in turn

has been stripped of individuality

by those factions who would rather

paint the theory of innocence onto a canvas

as the women grasp the children

produced of their own blood

and desperately query,

“May we?"

I am a walking contradiction,

retracing my steps,

looking backward to find my way forward,

deconstructing the paradigm,

to conversely find my niche within

the cultural construction of Woman

to become the body as vessel,

but I also will never stop

reaching across boundaries

to find the gray area

where we have always dwelt,

the middle ground between being a Woman

and becoming a woman, the in-between space

where individuality begins to surface,

and the, “May I?” becomes

“I can. I will. I am.”

I danced

I leaned away

and in the blink of an eye

I stepped off the edge

and tottered into a new idea.

I tipped into the thought

of choosing differently

and it was anything but easy

to walk directly away.

I’ve found, lately, that

even weaving through

the fake sidewalk that moves daily,

barriers erected

where previously there weren’t any,

even the fog horns

that startle me endlessly

and conversely promise safety,

even the cockroaches that leak out

of the second avenue construction

and barely last a hairsbreadth

before succumbing to a shoe,

even the underbelly details

bring me comfort

because I stepped away.

Sometimes I weave backward -

I hover on the surface of what once was

and play the game of what could have been.

But in the end I always find

that singing to a dog in a kitchen,

slashing paragraphs for the maybe of a future,

and sitting on a futon that plays at being comfortable

helps me straddle the middle of what was and what will be

because I chose to dance. 

Maelstrom

Surrounded by burnt orange 

and bright red foliage 

that inspires the colors 

found in your Crayola box,

she experienced a series 

of sudden jabs, 

twists, turns, 

a confusing set of pretend 

rules roughly based in a mixture of 

childhood and adulthood, 

love, but also false faces, 

a return to a happiness she once knew 

and au meme temps a desperation 

to extract herself from 

the emotional melee mediated by 

the person in her head screaming 

that she shouldn't have looked back;

Cups on replay 

(two bottles of whiskey for the way / 

you're gonna miss me when I'm gone), 

a breath taken behind pink glasses that 

cannot possibly make 

ce moment en son vie plus rose.

Where is the beginning and where is the end 

of the winding road that leads to 

hot chocolate and pauses in a fake cab ride?

Color-by-number

I brushed up against you
and we began to color outside of the lines,
even though it was very tempting
to stick with the color-by-numbers pattern:

a moment inside a train car
tasting kale salad 
and mimicking another era,
we stepped back in time and pushed forward until

I found the space next to you in the Punk exhibit
surrounded by models wearing pins in slashed shirts,
smiling with chagrin as I slipped back into
the excruciatingly painful hot pink heels
leaving behind the freedom of bare feet,
so then

we showed your mother our safe haven,
cloaked in Chablis on a rooftop
with the wind in our hair and 

I leaned into you,
and the future unfurled
into a whorl of purple maxi dresses
and unconditional love.

to weave

"Here I am, an old man in a dry month, 

Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain,"

she whispered to the whimpering infant, 

trailing memories behind her likes wisps of clouds,

translucent and strangely opaque,

a path that led from wheelbarrows, 

covered with rain, littering the front yard

to an icebox once possessed of plums.

Gently gliding through histories,

she exited through the hotel door,

flush with youth, 

and followed the slowly unraveling yarn 

out of the labyrinth,

breathless with freedom,

dancing through the remnants

of an Eden that once stretched eastward 

to the royal town built by Grecian kings,

before an apple convinced Adam to tempt Eve,

she uncovers their leaves, 

and gently sifts through pages

of thoughts covered in dust

rife with singular identities

that form an unmistakably 

intricate pattern of seconds

that lead to the minute

when she soothes the now sleeping baby

with the story of an old man.

an·o·dyne

Utterly inundated

sliced orange-green-yellow-white

splashed red

find the inside of a thought

that suggests that texts are not timeless,

the mouth howls insistently

Émissions de Télévision en Français

head in her hands

hope at the tip of fingers

a question - Coleridge or Beckett? - 

searching for Heathcliff and Catherine

covered in false information, misleading steps

cradling Isabella in the palm of her hand,

she reaches for the sea of crawling foam,

Paraît que le bonheur est à portée de main
alors on tend la main et on se retrouve fou,

which every modernist has to some extent inflicted,

happiness within our grasp to be laughed at,

"Everything she said was like a secret voice

speaking straight out of my bones," said Sylvia,

and close by a poet placed a jar in Tennessee,

good joke, je suis folle, but que sera sera

je ne sais pas si je veux ceux-ci ou ceux-là. 

Hold me closer

"Did you know,"
she whispered in his ear,
treading lightly
and speaking softly
so the cat wouldn't know she was awake,
breathing an idea into being,
legs entwined and eyelids fluttering,
broaching the subject
before opening the blinds
and letting in the light of the new day,
"Did you know that happiness
could be waltzing in an airy kitchen
singing Tiny Dancer to a giggling baby,
turning off the synthetic air
and letting in the breeze,
finding contentment in a moment
perfect enough to videotape and remember
when the Tiny Dancer turns 18?"

He smiled.

Nose to nose

she feels the memory of a breath,

the tingling before a brushing of lips,

nose to nose in a dark bar

in a crush of people,

the moment of contact when 

no one can see her,

wrapped in a bubble of sensation 

that includes only the person 

who has placed his hand 

on her lower back, 

electrifying her body,

and her.

Secretly Settled

The lilting wind passes through leaves

in the little cemetery

she can see

through her unblocked window,

a cat weaves and

she feels the reverb--

of a purrrrrrr,

eyes half-closed,

ensconced

in her cocoon,

she pictures it,

and lets the slow knowledge

of contentedness

infuse her very pores.

Impromptu Reeses

yellow lights
1234567
like beacons 
drawing me
forward
I pass Yorkville Wines,
the Duane Reade,
"I put one foot in front of the other /
Whoa oh oh oh"
engulfed in a cloud
of utter contentment
my body fills with the slow
sensation of peace,
my toes touching the floor,
grounded in reality
I feel the weight slough off my chest,
ready to weave in and out 
of sensation and reality,
"May your past be the sound /
of your feet upon the ground"
and the purple shirt wavers in front of me,
we walk 1,2,3, one foot in front of the other
toward the great tower
that houses a small "luxury" apartment
in which we have placed two more walls 
than were originally filled with beams
and added a couple, a roommate, a child's gate
a tabby, a black and white, a pitboxador,
and each contender in the ring slowly vies for space,
but luckily the purple shirt and jean shirt agree
that chocolate on peanut butter is like a Reeses
and is probably the best thing we could be eating right now,
well except for the end of the Indian food - palak paneer to be precise - 
and the everything bagel laden with turkey, 
and perhaps the red peppers dipped in hot sauce and sour cream,
except for those things the impromptu Reeses is the best idea,
because who doesn't like standing half naked in a kitchen
sharing secret midnight snacks with a best friend,
a pocket of "oh yeah hey there!"
away from the other spacers.

in and floating on the bed,
cross legged,
I know that while it may seem 
as though the dream
is far away
in this moment
there is only the peace
of knowing that my brain has slowed,
my body is filled with a knowledge
that I am. I am ma I em me. Not pig latin, 
an amalgamation of letters that
sound alike, but are not alliteration
that make up a word meant to be a first person pronoun, 
Me! it shouts, Je, Yo, and other similar two word claimers, 
we claim ourselves - we hope - and come to continuous realizations
that we can only be our best - as creepy Dollhouse would attest -
we can only be the moment where our soul rejoins our senses,
cause we travel and sometimes can't even out right away,
but life is a fabulous journey, 
so it'd definitely be best 
not to get lost 
if you can possibly help it.
it certainly 
isn't the easiest road. 

"Hello"

An undercurrent of voices 

courses through the apartment, 

drowned out by the running water 

that gargles their meaning.

Hundreds chime in, thrilled

to have a medium 

to convey the words they so want to impart,

"I love you, I miss you, find me, hello!, 

there you are, I knew you would come, 

I have been waiting."

Tears course down my cheeks 

as suddenly as my breath comes, 

Surprising, unconscious, unstoppable,

I put down the onion knife 

and know that these tears do not sting,

but are droplets of uninhibited joy; 

one of the voices has passed through me and he loves me, 

someone I miss daily, 

and he hums to me, "All that matters is happiness" 

and I put my palms out, 

asking for one more breath of "hello" 

before I know my grandfather in all but blood 

has rejoined the cascade of voices 

traveling to touch us ever so softly 

if only we can listen closely.

And my hands

Possessed 

by a deep-rooted fear,

the seconds turn into minutes and tick away, 

drifting through my fingers 

like sand 

into a quickly accumulated pile 

of lost time 

that cannot be sorted through, 

no way to retrieve 

even one

And

my carefully constructed plan 

cracks 

and little pieces 

of glass collect

at my feet as I run, 

cutting deeper and deeper 

and I can't do it, 

I can't find the train, the car, the hotel, 

I'm stuck 

riding to the wrong part of Connecticut, 

driving on an old highway through Ann Arbor, 

jumping a turnstile in Paris

because I don't have enough money 

to get all the way to the outskirts 

because it's not a normal metro price

And

I'm drenched in sweat 

in my little dress 

with now drooping polka dots, 

running circles around Washington Square Park 

looking for a building 

tucked away 

from the normal eye

housing people like me who aren't lost

and are waiting for me 

if only I can catch my breath

and calm my shaking hands, 

my body weakened by the effort 

to get it right

And

I find solace in people 

willing to help, 

who encourage me to run like the wind 

to the next escalator 

that will take me a floor down 

to people with the answers, 

but even they doubt themselves 

and I have to hope and trust 

that my fear is misplaced, 

my anxiety all wrong, 

there is nothing to worry over 

because even if I miss the train

I can go home and those who love me 

will continue to love me, 

even the one disappointed 

by my anxiety, 

and I am safe, 

and all is well

And

my hands won't stop shaking.

I'll have the Chablis

"Well, I was thinking,"
she thought,
"that 2 bottles of the Chablis
might be a bit much,
but in fact the goût de pierre à fusil
is strangely lovely,
the acidity goes nicely
with the slightly flinty aftertaste,
less fruity than other grapes
that produce various Chardonnays,"
but out loud she stated,
"Hmmm, quite nice"
and continued to stare
at her date with
the unfortunately
long hair,
who, after resisting her knowledge,
tried to convince her
that academia was a hard road to travel,
and teaching was a difficult path,
describing his work at Google
as if she were at a job interview
rather than understanding
that people are her passion
and interpersonal connection -
listening, absorbing,
volleying a reply
that continues the thesis,
lining up supporting arguments
like little green army men -
is of the utmost importance.

She internally recounts
the chapter on Henry James
that she recently read,
enjoying the thought that, like Isabel,
she could inscribe meaning
on a seemingly empty situation.

Half Naked

in a camp shower 

in a community bathroom

i placed on the floor a canvas sack of clothes, 

the bag emblazoned with the space needle encircled, 

the pile topped by that jean dress I like so much, 

(a mixture of 2013 and 1999 -

a remnant of greek goddesses and middle school)

but i couldn't get clean enough 

to wear it.

Half naked, I discovered to my horror

that I had left my purse elsewhere, 

and leaving the shower

emerged into a room 

of whirring sounds and whack-a-mole games, 

but I couldn't retrace my steps, 

stopping at showers that hadn't existed, 

finding that the slab of leather containing all of 

the documentation 

that identified me 

was lost, 

not to be found 

even by the three people 

willing to help me look 

while I continued 

to try

to get clean.

glancing into a room that was and wasn't mine,

i discovered i had a strange man in my life,

a designer who changed things and created space,

a man who wasn't quite right and

suddenly another who - who knew? - 

was posing as a dog (a red border collie) 

who turned back into the boy 

who i had had too many vodka gimlets with,

angry I had exposed him before he could expose me

and he had a copy 

of my GRE essay 

from the first time,

which was the only helpful thing

he had discovered about me. 

sprinting barefoot through the snow,

the wind at my back in the dark,

cleansed by the biting cold but

free from impending frostbite 

(because we have that freedom in dreams),

i looked into the lights on a familiar lake

and knew 

that i was running toward not away

pushed by a loss 

but not ruined by anxiety.

You

attuned, tied, bound, 

i sip from your emotions 

until I'm overfull, 

linked to your high, 

doused in your happy, 

drowned in your sad 

i feel you acutely, deeply, madly 

through text (4 squinting emojis), 

touch, breath, sigh, 3 words, 

i am you until i breathe in me 

with a quick prayer to st. anthony, 

"help me find my happy place, 

fill me with contentment, 

separate me" 

before i willfully 

tune back into you

and slip out of me

barefoot fountain

sift through seconds,

relive moments, 

slough off the ugly and remember

singing at the top of our lungs, 

talking about babies and other people

's weddings, 

swaying after kamikazes, hair back in a bar,

slipping lips and

touching fingers 

pulling you 

by the belt ("come my Greek goddess"),

analyze the details - save them for later -

a breath, 

an end,

the knowledge 

that you are,

you are

impossibly loved, 

surrounded by kindness, caught

- impossibly, gratefully caught -

in a sea, a net, a web 

of understanding, 

the 

heart-

beat, 

heartbeats, heart/beat, 

when friendship is boiled down 

to tears on a bench trickling 

and hugs on a floor ("come cuddle"), 

dresses and cupcakes 

at a champagne tea party,

a barefoot fountain. 

love is.