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. 

Midnight Groceries

Futilely searching,
I found myself flailing
in a dreamscape
where everyone knew the rules,
but I couldn't find the directions,
searching through the dark streets
for the one who had held my hand and
kissed me in the basement in a bathroom
where genders were separated by gauze,
I looked at names on plaques
on anonymous buildings
and followed strangers inside
when they opened the door
to bring in midnight groceries.

In what looked like a bachelor pad,
but also maybe an apartment I once saw,
bathed in orange light,
a round couch (a bed?),
and rooms like a maze,
impossible to navigate,
dotted with candles,
I checked my text messages to discover,
"Hope you won't mind, playing cards with my friends,"
but I did mind because I had left the comfort
of the ones who loved me to try something new,
only to be set on a side street
of Manhattan, surrounded by concrete,
led by the nose to something that didn't exist.

Hansel

I'd be interested
to know if the name
etched in bright green on the clear cup
containing the light brown liquid
most of us imbibe to survive, 
well if that name is your name,
because I have known those writers
to misspell Krista as Christry and Kristin,
Gigi as Titi, and Jess as Jeff
so I would be amused if someone
introduced him or herself to me
on the subway,
sat next to me on the light blue seats
caked with the imprints of 100s of people,
and called me by the name written 
on my cup.

Nice to meet you, Hansel, 
or whomever you are.