In Memoriam

So many bad things happened,
And I sat quiet.

But I want to walk into the street and scream.

Fifty of my siblings are dead.
They lay in pools of blood
while loved ones cry
or
convince themselves that
they are fine.
mourning their own friends at the hospital
cell phones forgotten.

I want to cry for them.

I want to confront the
toxicity of men.

I watch my sister's abuser
excused and justified.
Her pain erased,
violation dismissed.
Because of his
potential.

This week has been a series of headlines
About pain and death
and the only news is
that my life is tossed aside
just as easily as
fifty dead friends.

That my narrative is taken
as remorselessly as he took
my body from me.

These news stories
responses
memes
tweets
status updates
photos
only frame the portrait of me
that the world has been painting for
     years - 

A poor, queer woman
who is only newsworthy
In Memoriam.

On The Question Mark

I love the way you say "yeah"
With a question mark.

The question mark is important.
It is waiting for me to continue, of course
But it is also, somehow
Pleased.

It is like a puppy who hears
"Here, boy"
And the ears perk up,
Suddenly alert.

It seems, in a way,
To be excited
with an air of "wow, really?"
disbelieving, yet hopeful.

It is not incredulous,
This question mark,
or genuinely curious,
It is not looking to be answered.

It is, I think, a little shocked-
But pleased at the discovery.

just tired.

I'm too tired to write a poem.
I tried to write one about
how I only ever learned what not to do
in the ongoing struggle to raise a well adjusted child.
Or one about how desperately
I want to teach him he doesn't have to be afraid
like I was for twenty six years.

I'm too tired to find the words
look at my spacing
Does this line meter right?
is the break
appropriate
or is this line much too long?

All I can think about is
making my own tea
how many times I'm going to forget my phone in the morning
and who is going to teach me to drive, now.
The tiny little spaces in my life that he filled.
How he makes me cum long,
and deep,
slowly bringing me to a climax,
and knows exactly what buttons to press
and for how long
and in what cadence
to leave me exhausted and filled with love.

I don't feel loved anymore.
I don't feel anything -
just tired.

Economics

I'm better than this, you say.
     Brilliant
     Determined
     Beautiful
    (Deserving)
That's fine -

Thoughts like that are a luxury
(because there is risk in chasing a better life)
that I can only believe when I have some breathing room.

Some distance from obligations like
     Rent
     Hunger
     My son
    (His father)
Or in your arms.

The problem with boys with money is that,
when they love you,
there is a mania that makes us look beyond our limits.

That glimpse into middle-class possibility -
     A full stomach
     New clothes
     A vacation
    (Freedom)
Gone as soon as they are.

You make me high, or maybe it is the air up there
so far above my place
that you breathe into my lungs after you kiss me.

My medication warns me about
     excessive happiness
     racing thoughts
     reckless behavior
    (unusually grand ideas)
And I am calling my doctor

Because
how can I tell what is a mania-fueled delusion
and what is my use-value?

One-Dimensional

The first time I let myself admit I love you was in a poem.
I can't voice the words
but somehow they fit in verse.

I wish you loved me back -

Me, with a heating pad, complaining about my period
Sleeping for 14 hours because we need to adjust my meds (again)
Giving my son a bath
burning cookies
kneading bread
Domestic.

Instead, I think you love
me, with a book and a highlighter
undressed to the waist,
prone on the bed
reading some dull intellectual text,
with your fingers buried in me up to the knuckle
your hands around my neck.

I hope Good Earth us is happy -
     because this sucks.

Two Poems

feedback

It’s a strange loop.

I like the way you like

The way I like how you look at me.

The fugue intensifying until my ears are ringing

And your eyes are dark and distant.

Somehow, I have been distracting you.

At a volume you describe as ‘cacophonous’

When the only sound is your thumb drumming on my ankle.

You leave the room, and I want you more.

Suddenly I am back at the beginning of this

Mobius strip that I have been treading,

Hoping, futilely, that if I walk it carefully enough

I will end up somewhere new.

Maybe I would step off onto that Good Earth

(different than yours, I know)

Housed behind the event horizon of some imploding star

Like the one that sits quietly in my chest while I cry myself to sleep.  

Or the one that steals all the light from your eyes which are

Just across the couch (the bed, the console)

A million light-years away,

Silent.

The feedback is ear-splitting.

that arm

The stretch of that arm
muscle, shoulder, back
flesh
    slips
beneath my hands
this texture
i can’t describe
your skin.

That smell, not soap
in my hair
those hands grasp
objects and my fingers
with purpose and delicacy
    respectfully   
you open the door

and i enter.

City Blocks

Stalking down the street, I began to hear the footsteps following me again. Always this block. Always this building.

“Don't you have something better to do, like look out your windows and spy on the neighbors or something?” I scowled at the asphalt, refusing to look behind me.

I hear a chuckle. “Not particularly.” Always so nonchalant. Doesn't he take any of this seriously?

I continue walking in silence. I'm so angry at him, even the gravel crunching under his feet infuriates me. The moonlight falling down, the rustle of the trees. It feels like too much sensual stimulation. “Just go home, okay? What're you even following me for?”

“Aw, Tria, don't be sour. I didn't mean anything by it.” His voice really sounded penitent, but it didn't quench my anger.

“I don't know what you mean. I'm not sour, Jason. Just tired of having some creep follow me every night when I walk home from work.” I stared at the ground as I crossed the street, the lines of the crosswalk faded.

“That's not my name. Tria, can't you just stop and talk to me?”

I turn around. On the other side of the crosswalk, he stands. Jason, Mitch, Sean, Samuel. All names I've tried before. I have a list at home.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you last night.” His eyes look so blue-gray, I know he's sad. His eyes look like the color of moonlight, and I can't refuse him.

I walk back across the street, sagging my shoulders. “I'm really angry, you know.” But I'm not. I've already forgiven him for refusing to come home with me last night.

“I know, love. You made it all the way across the street this time.” He smiles at me, and I smile back, because the last shreds of my willful anger have evaporated. “Come on, I'm dying for a float.” He turns right and heads towards the neon sign at the end of the street.

We walk down the block towards our usual haunt, a diner on the corner, not touching, but he tells me jokes and I laugh. I tell him about work, about how no one even notices I'm there until I do something wrong.

He stares at a stray lock of hair on my face. I brush it behind my ear, and he says, “I notice you.”

“Stalk me is more like it,” and I laugh.

But he doesn't laugh. He just keeps walking.

I try a few more names. James, Jess, Alexis and Ashley. Nothing sticks.

“I thought you were only going to try one name a night?” He says with a laugh I can easily tell is false.

“You seem particularly down tonight. Figured it might cheer you up.”

The door jingles as we close it behind us, and we sit down in our booth like we do every night. I drink a root beer float and devour a basket of fries doused with vinegar and salt. I offer him one, and he shakes his head. “You know I hate vinegar.”

I lick off the vinegar and wave a soggy french fry at him. “Look, all clean. Doesn't even taste like vinegar any more.”

But he leans back with a wide grin, looking like the smart ass I'm in love with. His skin looks sallow in the artificial light. I can't wait until we get back outside.

After slurping the last remnants of my float, I leave some money on the table and get up, reaching to grab his coat sleeve and pull him out the door. “Let's go.”

He flinches away from me, but I ignore it and turn towards the door. It's almost time, and I want as much of him as I can get. I hear an apology as he hurriedly follows me, but I ignore that, too. I don't want to waste any of tonight with more arguing, more “I'm sorry”.

We walk back to the corner. The corner where I leave, but instead of crossing the street and going home, I stand and look at him. His dark red hair, almost black in the moonlight, and the sad smile on his face. “You wanna tell me what's wrong? Or you just gonna be sad all night.”

“Nothing's wrong, Tria.”

“It's okay to tell me. You tell me everything else. I can help.”

He shakes his head. “Not with this.”

“You can't know that until you tell me. I'm nosy and I want you to be happy.”

“I'm fine. Really.”

“You're a liar. I'd like to think, after a year of you, I'd know you better than that.” And there it is. Tomorrow is our anniversary, of a sorts, and now he knows it hasn't gone unnoticed.

“I'd better go. It's almost time.” He turns around and starts to walk back towards the end of the block, the crooked stop sign where he always seems to materialize behind me. For the first time, I watch him as he walks away hands in his pockets, head down, hair hanging over his forehead. He turns down an alley, and I have to follow him, I can't leave yet.

I run, and when I turn into the narrow dead-end alley, he's gone. My chest is on fire and my head hurts with exertion. There are no doors, just a rusted fire escape that looks as though it hasn't been used for years, and even if I were brave enough to follow him up, it would buckle under my weight.

I can't follow him, so I just close my eyes, and whisper into the empty alley. “I love you, you jerk. Why can't you just talk to me, like a normal friend would?”

“I can't. I can't tell you the truth. But please, don't stop coming. Don't leave me.” His voice in my ear is a whisper, right in front of me, but when I reach my hands out to touch him, he must already be gone, because all I touch is brick.

I sigh, open my eyes to an empty alley, and walk home silently. This boy. How can I put into words how much I love him? What do I say to make him believe, to make him come with me? I give up on writing the speech that will finally make him love me back, and instead think about how I'll fill up the hours of tomorrow before I can go visit him again.

I pick up the day's paper from my mailbox, and throw it on the table among my other assorted mail. I walk through the apartment, turning on one light after another, and shedding clothes along the way. Since the shower takes forever to heat up, I turn it on and put on the kettle, needing some caffeine to jolt me into wakefulness. I collapse at the table and flip through the paper, scanning the articles without much interest. When the kettle starts to whistle, I don't hear it. I'm staring at his face on the fifth page. Albeit a bit older.

The face of Davis Adams. The face of the man who built that diner, that bar, and in fact, all the shitty brick buildings on that block. Tomorrow is the day they throw some stupid anniversary party to celebrate the development of Adams block – the unofficial name the locals give it. After all, the entire block was at some point owned by Adams, and he was the one who had turned the empty lots into “cultural centers” as the article had called them. To the locals they were just worn brick buildings that had somehow had the wherewithal to hold up against bombs, fires, wind, rain, and any other obstacle thrown at them.

Loved by the locals not because they represented any sort of cultural bullshit, but simply because they were the meeting place of lovers, families, friends, and enemies. They were the scenes of knife fights, lover's quarrels, sidewalk chalk art, the most beautiful graffiti in the city, and the singular best busker in town. I smile thinking about the place.

Still, the photo of Adams unnerves me. Is my boy a relative? A grandson, or great grandson? But, no, he never had children. I'd call it an uncanny resemblance, except that the color of his eyes are the same color as the sidewalk, his skin like the moonlight, and his hair is the exact color of the brick.

I think about the fact that I've never seen him touch anything that didn't come from that block. Never seen him eat, or drink, or hug me, or cross the street.

And then, then I think about something scarier:Did I fall in love with the spirit of an entire city block?

Do places have souls?