080: bandaids

three bandaids on my knee for the mysterious cut, the long bright red. when I left there were three, when I returned only one. I pictured them tangled in sheets, stuck to shoe soles, discarded on the subway. yesterday I passed a lone bandaid face-up on the sidewalk halfway to the depot. the red streak across it the exact angle, the exact dashed-line design. how long it had been there I don’t know, or if it fell going to or coming back. this morning I lost the third, the one that held on so long. blowing in the wind somewhere.

079: friday

she’s gentle. she smells like tea 

and milk. she doesn’t frighten me. 

her roads are quiet, too. she is elbows 

and cushions and watermarks. 

she doesn’t mind catching hold 

of a cold pole when the subway sways. 

wind only grazes her skirts. her hair 

comes undone, improving her. 

she dreams and forgets by 

morning; mysteries do not trouble her. 

she walks with an invisible, bending 

grace. she sets the glass on the counter 

and watches the water gleam. tall or small, 

she’d trade her own bones for a bite of that cookie. 

it’s all right. I know she ends softly.

078: younger

I read the old words I wrote when I was younger and god, she had such stars in her eyes. She asked such questions, walked with such purpose, lived with such endlessness. I want to weep over the words that are good. I ask whether I really made them. I know that I did. The inside of my head was beautiful. The way I looked at the world was beautiful. 

Am I less now? The words seem heavier, stiffer, less flung and chaotic. Stars chimed behind every syllable back then. Now I hear only my own silence, the stifling overwhelm.

077: tight

My hips press out sideways against the stiff denim and it is the worst feeling in the world. Tight. Tight. Tight. Tight. These jeans fit again and I hate it. There were inches between my waist and the band. Saddlebags of fabric, not body. I was younger then, better. Now I am oversized. My mouth has two frames. Each time someone walks by I am holding this bagel. I set it down, pretend I can take it or leave it. The woman behind me says, How could anyone eat that much? She doesn’t know that she is talking about me.

076: better

I have been wondering if I am better. First thing in the morning, a joke bursts out of my mouth. Midday the clock surprises me with its vigor and silence. Afternoons I’m not so frightened, and I can peer through the fog if I squint. Evenings I sip strawberry water and think of vodka but I do not crack. Midnights I dream and laugh myself awake. Mornings I duck into the bright hall and don’t always remember the pain that shuttered me in, the old tunnel from bed to bed. Hours and minutes have my permission to pique my curiosity.

075: liturgy

I used to do this, when life was scenic. Now it’s just towers steepling into the mist. Drinking until the paper is blank. Clutching rails, glaring at my reflection as it sways. Opening the book of chances and shutting it again at once. Crossing the street away from the headlights, the voices, the serene smoke. Waiting for the neighbor cat. Leaving clothes on the floor. Wandering the aisles, unable to imagine one meal. Swallowing the salad. Clinging in the dark. Scribbling out the endless liturgy of how am I doing. Promising myself I’m not at fault. Playing at real life. 

074 : how many times

How many times have I gone to that ocean, seeking something? How many times have I come at dusk and seen two stars (maybe one an airplane) over the wash of purple and blue above the islands? How many times have I seen waves lapping over black rocks, stepped onto rims of sand at low tide, admired shells beneath me, looked across to where the sunset gleams over Salem? Always, underneath everything, a question. Something too large for a house or a head.

How many times have I gone to that ocean and come away with an answer?

A few.

073: impression

Art museums are exhausting. A thousand choices to make—which paintings to stop at, which to stroll past, which placards to read. And at each painting, so much to do—first, to arrive, to pause thoughtfully. Then to draw up a response, a feeling, a thought—some kind of reaction that is both naturally conceived and correct. It is not enough to look at a painting and think, “I like this one”. You must come up with a response that has weight, heft, interest. You have lines to follow, shapes to trace, colors and gradations to dive into. A hundred times you must do this, over and over, for every piece of art, and all while being quiet and not looking at the guards too often and not giving off the impression that you’re about to steal a painting.