A Morning in Newark

The sky a sickly white expanse, tops of buildings faded by fog and smoke, cars start and stop spraying grime and melted snow

A sad gray-faced woman stands against the red brick wall of the corner store, leaning on a payphone, her hands hidden in her black jacket, the hood wrapped tightly around her head, with the vast empty unblinking eyes of a ghost

I look out the window and think of other planets

Twenty Images of Winter

still in coats, layers, hat half-pulled to the side

brisk, my walk, the wind, too strong to christen a breeze

a long marathon, still, although in February i had thought i would be done

do i dare to open my lips, draw in the aluminum air, tin foil filling my mouth

the sun is almost unbearable in its brightness, like cheese knives so casually slicing through languid air

by the time the sun hits me, little cracks have already appeared on my knuckles

laughter, peel of laughter, young and clear. only in my mind, though, for not even trees have any secrets to whisper

on the best days, Russia has a thin film of blue over it. bells ring, toll. it is twilight beyond them.

smoke fills the car, an ember tries to breath. i can't tell if the windows are frosted or just trying to make it through.

my hands are too small for this. i can't slip into the buttery leather of a woman's gloves, only the scratchy polyester belonging to a forgetful child.

Donne thought that maybe a semi-colon can separate us from death. but this, this winter, this warming, this brightness in the face of temperatures positive but still below zero, is an ellipsis that tells me to keep walking. so i keep walking.

ice pelts my window, and metal scrapes the gravel. i huddle, closer, so that when i inhale, my stomach is tight with anticipation of the shards that i, too soon, must face.

i want to believe in the beauty of pure white, but instead there is the deceptive ding of sleet hitting my tongue

i tip my boot gently into what i thought was the sidewalk. it sinks in, the weight of it, and i cannot keep going.

head down, face grazed by the five o'clock shadow of pellets of ice, harder, less forgiving than your stubble

a car passes by, like a plane on taking off, full of bravado and splash

pebbles, perhaps, jumping into my boots. no, more sinister, leaving behind spots of wetness that sticks to my socks

a skirt when a storm shuts down cities is defiance. so too the red lips, crystallized into a smirk.

i want to push back my cuticles, so that they can hide from the doom of extremity for just a few more millimeters.

untouched, a whole field of white, behind a wooden fence. orchid white, flour white. it turns blue with my gaze, that deep, deep pressure of being pure.

Ribbon

you once held a bouquet of
flowers, ribbon, lilies and
tulips in the porcelain winter

the lilies made me sneeze, and the
tulips were careful to stand
up straight, bleary-eyed children
at roll call. but you, i didn't
pay any attention to you.

your smoothness, the fineness of
your grain said, "Royalty." so i
couldn't bear to throw you out
with the stem clippings, the fallen petals.
the cellophane and tissue paper
that you once held rustled as
i hurried them out my door, but
you lay limply on my desk.

i had no use for you, ribbon,
just like i had no name for your color:
not red enough for crimson, too
pink for magenta. i can only
name you after fruits, raspberry,
perhaps. my lipstick tells me you
are watermelon, but i rise to
defend your complexity to a marketer's
imagination. a rich shade of pink, warm but no
shocking.

it is your fortune that you are
long, serpentine in your easy grace,
folding in on yourself. one day,
when i missed the flowers,
you tied back my hair. even though
all you're holding is still just a
decoration, i can keep you in this
role, for spring days to come.

there aren't, in this world, too much trash
that can be so beautifully recycled.

==

pending revision.

Saturday Night

Computer pale humming,
     green circles blinking on the electronic box,
          black headphones silent resting on their side.
Packet of mint waxed floss casts a shadow across the table,
     shaped like an unmarked tombstone,
          shaped like a deformed bell chiming for no one.
The Drunken Boat lies flat and alone,
     the same cover black white and gray,
          unopened and along the edge of the desk.
Eyeing dark-haired smiling girl with cats,
     the radio is mute,
          thinking of geography and recounting miles.
Map of the world hangs on the wall,
     the lines unchanged,
          Greenland is curved like South America but empty.

Remain

we were drinking beer, the image of
which resists my re-inventions when
my camera has been replaced
with a pen

the wine might have come later, for me,
but, then, we took turns pretending
to be grown up

breaking hearts is a game
leaving is a game, just as simple as
a choreographed move - you turn,
walk away. but i am lying, for
that is not the moment that
i captured.

instead, you are looking
away first, eyes captivated
by the vermillion of her
need. the beer is still popping
on my tongue, but words are
becoming distant, leaving
my mouth inches away
from my pursed lips.

what is left behind is the heat
of bodies, not
the clarity of thought

this is true of the moment we
get up to leave, a classroom, perhaps
or those heavy gates, set
to keep out sighs, desire, lack

i turned away first. your letters,
they lie unanswered. we hugged, and
you walked through the turnstile.
i walked away.

Holiday

in the kitchen, the dishes need to be washed.

you trudge upstairs, the victim of
too many words swallowed with
the bitter neon green of lime
juiced by your expert hands

having no talent for cooking, i walk
to the sink. the porcelain white, the
blue chantilly lace, all so quiet in
the thoughts they elicit. i don't pay
attention. only the smooth coldness,
tinged with the skin of tomatoes,
the strands of angel hair, slipping
through my fingers.

bubbles rush out of the sponge (no accompanying
bell of champagne glasses), roll in the water. i wipe my hands,
waiting for ordinariness to envelope
my summer skin, like the way the eggplant,
ivory and soft, sank into the
gaps of our conversation.

when i find you, the
room has filled with heat. you
are lying on the floor, your
fingers jagged, tearing
through the heavy air, pretense of
the normality of dishes
piled up. we do not have
that reference, not yet.

i pull you to me, wave away
clouds, like a mother flicking raindrops
off the hair of her son. and you,
like a timid bear, refuse the
sunlight, the stream of cold brume rising
up into the mountains, the dew
on my face.

you lie yourself down, on a pine
bed, not minding the pricks
etching crests not your own into your back
when you sleep, girls appear
around you. alternately they are
the Fates and the Muses
(only three for you
and not kind)
the laughter
in your dreams leaves me only disappointment.

i am in the next room, but
i should be downstairs, or in a
car, driven, driven away.

the obligatory test post

is this on? oh ok, this is on.

hello world.