cigarette break from the family kitchen

The scored gashes of the cutting board seared—
the aroma slicing like tined sword fish.
I wiped the salt and the seas from my lids,
thankful for the onions, the knife, the cry.

My silvery aunt suggested fresh air,
after noting the room smelled like brine;
cutting and weeping was therapeutic,
but I was jonesing for a cigarette.

We crept out, even though everyone knew
our code—what “getting fresh air” really meant.
We sipped sweet chemicals through paper straws
exhaling twining crow’s nests to the moon.

We climbed, searching for my dead grandfather.
We were prepared—unspooling anecdotes,
uncorking bottled histories, leaving
behind a rich trail of pearls in the stars.

“Like golden thread to guide him home” I said,
knowing all to well his ship wouldn’t breach
the horizon. And when the satellites
come crashing down, I’ll have my memories.

"Washington shivers, Moscow laughs"

We bundle, making sure all exposed skin is covered,
as not to entice a bite from February’s icy jaw.
We wear our scarves like dust masks—
as though this is some nuclear winter,
but it’s hardly a cold war out there.
Across the sea—more than well-practiced in the art
of surviving the cold—Russia scoffs.
“America is resilient, until it snows.”
And as I hopelessly try to shovel myself out of winter,
I wonder what life would be like if it
only consisted of springs and autumns.
I hallucinate a bird singing, only for it to be replaced
with the overwhelming silence of falling snow,
and as much as I miss the lilacs and the magnolias—
I would miss this serenity even more.

on growing up.

No one likes admitting defeat,
Especially when you were more than sure that you were right.
With the evidence stacked as high as it was—
Higher than the dirty dishes in the sink,
Higher than the cathedrals of cigarette butts
Rising from their ashtray foundations—
Pockets full of posies and proof,
And piles upon piles of fervent witness testimonial stacked in your favor,
You knew, you were certain
That heads would roll.
There was no possible way you could be wrong.
There was no possible way that the jury could find him
Not guilty.

Except
You’re the jury.
And you’ve reached an unexpected verdict:
He’s innocent.



I’ve spent a lot of time deconstructing myself,
Lying on Freud’s metaphorical, velvety, cum-stained couch
Consulting my imaginary arm-chair psychologist,
Melting the glue
And chiseling away at the pieces of my broken ego,
Peeling off the layers like an onion,
And I realized
You were right.


I’ve realized I am indeed too young.
I still have a lot of growing to do.


You once told me:
“You’re like a bottle of fine wine,
You have to be opened at the right age
Or else it’s spoiled”.
At first, I wanted to bludgeon you with that bottle,
Slit your throat with the shards
And then note how ironically appropriate a wine comparison was
Coming from an alcoholic;
I drank away my sorrows instead.


Now, I’m raising high the white flags.
Lousy metaphors aside: you were right.
I still have growing to do.



Today is my best friend’s birthday.
She’s twenty.
I’m twenty.
I called her and we shrieked about
How frightening it is to no longer be teenagers.
At first we felt old;
She started whittling a cane
And I popped a painkiller
Because that’s what old people do, right?

But then we realized
We’re so young, we’re so goddamn young.
Assuming we both die at eighty of lung cancer
We still have sixty fucking years to go.
So much time to learn.
So much time to grow.

(We also noted how it’s a miracle that we’re alive today,
How we had both assumed we’d be dead by eighteen.
“Live fast and die young” we used to say.
And we meant it.
We don’t feel that way anymore.)


I’m excited to learn,
I’m excited to love,
I’m excited to live,
I’m excited to grow.


I’m just sorry you don’t want to be around to watch the process.
You could’ve been an excellent teacher.

on physics.

if we cut our hearts out of our chests and threw them off of a building, whose would hit the ground first, mine or yours? hint: the laws of gravity do not apply.

suppose.

Suppose the dishes in the sink were never washed,
and they just kept mountaining to overwhelming heights
until they broke through the ceiling
and the plaster coated our heads like dandruff.
Would you climb it with me?

Suppose we scaled that summit of silverware and glass
with just our hands, convictions and wills,
do you think we'd make it to the top
or would we have to lighten our load?

Suppose we rested along the way,
and you were starving to death—
if I slipped my hand in one of the ceramic crevices,
would I find that cake I baked for you, so many months ago, untouched?
This time, would you eat it?

Suppose I didn't know my way around the kitchen,
would you still love me regardless?

Suppose I pushed you off the side,
would you, like a dish, shard into a million porcelain pieces,
or would you survive the fall unscathed?

Suppose I just did the dishes,
would you then stay home for dinner
or would you still go out to eat instead?

the great eclipse of 1831

Everyone knew it was coming.
On the day of the eclipse
Business was suspended
For every man, woman and child was stargazing.
Peering through panes of smoked glass,
Necks outstretched, pupils dilated,
America anxiously watched—
Some choking on their Adam’s apples,
Others gripping their quivering hearts.
Most praying, a few drinking—
As daylight waned
And the inky moon,
As though dipped in oil,
Snuffed out the sun.

“Keep your gaze turned up towards the heavens”
My graying aunt tells me.
“They’re coming for us, I promise”

I believe the tales my aunt spins,
Because she believes in my own lunacy,
And I happily swallow her advice.
Each night, I watch the empty sky, waiting,
Hoping to catch a glimpse
Of an alien lightshow,
Ready to mow crop circles
In my front yard
Asking them kindly
To beam me up off of this planet.

And I’d never look back.

anniversary

I remember sitting in the kitchen by the telephone, waiting.
A friend was standing at the stove, watching water boil,
Another was crouching under the table
More than sure the sky was about to fall,
That the world was ending.
Addie was in the bathroom
Pissing on a pregnancy test.
We were all waiting.

I had just fallen out of a relationship—
My heart was raw.
You had just turned twenty-four
And you had an age complex.
You thought that I was too young for you,
So you fled the scene, like a child.

I tried to warm myself with a cup of piping hot coffee—
An attempt to psychically fan and rekindle the flames of dying love.
I burnt my tongue instead.

And as I pressed my hand to the window, the cold burned me through the glass as well.
The sky was grey, the landscape barren and dead.
It was winter, and we all wanted to die.

For a brief moment
I too believed the sky was falling
So I quickly drew the curtains
Shielding us from the world,
Trying to hide from the painful truths
Of our reality.

Addie emerged.
She was pregnant.
“How do I kill it?” she asked
As the water boiled over the brim of the pot.




It’s January
You recently turned twenty-five.
And still I find myself
Waiting by the telephone,
Waiting
For you to grow up
And call me.