Tell No One Where You've Been

Sometimes I’ll stand on top of a manhole in the street,
remain perfectly still, and feel the pull of gravity on all my limbs.
The world that lurks below my feet reigns me in
until I burn to see what the concrete hides from me.
What sort of feasts lie underground that I’ll never taste?
There’s a galaxy down there, they say.
And if you’re perfectly silent, you can hear the moan of saxophones
and the jovial clink of glasses emanate from below.
I once heard an old man speak of how he stumbled upon it
as he was rushing from work, late to get home to his wife
the wind biting at his chilled face and pressed suit
and in his hurry, did not notice the manhole cover
askew to the side of the gaping hole that lead below.
He took a sharp turn, slipped, his red bowtie shed from his throat
from the quickness of the fall, yelling so much
he nearly swallowed his own voice, until he landed softly in a candlelit room
filled with small round tables and the walls lined with bottles
of red, blue, green, gold, purple, magenta
the light catching the liquid inside and sending colors dancing
across the vacant room’s walls like playful pixies.
People then flooded into the room, chattering and laughing
and platters of cold, ripe apples were placed on each table
“Eat, eat,” they told him, and so he did.
His teeth pierced the apple’s red skin as it bled juice
and its sweetness was the purest thing he’d ever tasted.
They poured him drinks of every color and size
and saxophones, hundreds of them, echoed amidst their speech
until their voices sounded like them,
and everything was music.
After the bottles were emptied and apple cores strewn everywhere
the people, thick with the night, began to wave goodbye and exit
and like a geyser erupted below his feet, he was propelled in the air
and thrown back above ground, flung onto the city streets like discarded litter.
Panting, he ran back, but the manhole was sealed over the opening
forbidding him entry. Beside him, glittering red like the apples,
a sharp contrast to the grey of the sidewalk, lay his bowtie.
He picked it up, a memento of his journey, and walked home.
Nobody believed him. His wife thought him crazy,
and sent him off to bed. But there are nights I know he was right,
for I am overwhelmed with the hushed whispering of life below me,
and drop to my knees, trying to pry the manhole loose,
desperate for just one taste.





- LAP etc.

Ribs

When my arms are down,
you can’t really see them.
There’s not enough tension, there’s too many layers to sift through.
But when I reach up towards the sky,
they rise to the surface of my skin like long fingers,
one, two three, four, pressing against the membrane that contains them.
They’re ready to break through my skin and gasp for air,
release from the prison of my fleshy torso.
They keep me strong, I’m fearless so long as they exist
to hold me up, rigid and unyielding.
Sometimes I’ll raise one hand up, elongate myself
and with the other hand, trace them
and push them, test their density. I tap them like piano keys,
the sound is slightly musical, but mostly hollow.
I feel each tiny thud echo in my spine, until I’m just
one big cavern of sound, rattling like a maraca,
or a shopping cart with a broken wheel.
Sometimes I wish they were profound enough
to hold onto, grasp like a banister,
hang ornaments from, a breathing Christmas tree.
I need them, more than they know. They are the silent
guardians whose presence makes me possible.
They defend the delicate life that lurks within:
the meaty, moist, throbbing tissue – so vulnerable and helpless –
now safe within the vibrating bones, beating to their melody.
I am safe from the probing forces around me,
all the jabs and gestures, the slander and slurs
cannot get past my iron barrier, those sturdy ridges.
For inside them beats my caged heart, secure, untouchable,
living serenely in the comfort
of its own white picket fence.




- LAP etc.

The Ballad of Narcissism

The sound of the bristles of the comb
ripping through your tangled hair
shhhrrrpppttt, shhhrrrpppttt
like bark being ripped from a tree
or thousands of pieces of paper
being torn in half at once.
It’s enough to make me go deaf.

Then the subtle popping noise
as you pump the wand of your mascara
in and out of its rounded base
fffffwop, fffffwop
the liquidy blackness a congealed mess on the brush
as you drag it around on your eyelashes

Next is the scraping of your nail file
as you whittle down the jagged ends
of your long nails, painted with fuschia
sstthhhhht, sstthhhhht
like sandpaper to wood, only more pitiful

You conclude with a muted pant
as you gape at yourself in the mirror,
applying eyeliner, mouth hanging wide open
as if you couldn’t possibly draw a straight line otherwise.
hhhhaahhhh, hhhaahhhh
your breath fogs up the mirror rhythmically, like a pulse.

I’m used to this discordant symphony by now
as I listen with impatience from outside the bathroom door
waiting and waiting, as you serve as the conductor
to the concerto of your vanity.


- LAP etc.

Wandering Harmonies

I

Those ragged people on the sidewalks
silently braving the London chill
reaching desperately for each passerby
trying to thrust some sort of flyer into
every outstretched hand are ignored by
everyone. Except you, who meets their eye
with a sympathetic smile, as you say
“No, thank you,” and, surprised to be addressed
they draw back, nod, startled by the kindness.
It was Tuesday, and you were walking me to class.



II

The watch on your left wrist doesn’t work.
It died months ago, and now it is always
six seconds to midnight on New Years.
What better time, you say?
Its presence has branded your arm, so when you
remove it, it remains as a thickened line of white
against the tan of your skin. Even in the winter,
when sunshine has long been drained from your body,
the faint paleness is there, obstinate, resilient.



III

It was the biggest snowstorm in twenty years, they said.
A very first for some of the children, who ran about
so gingerly, so as not to cause the precious new whiteness to
melt before its time. They shut down the Tube, stranding you
in Hextable and me in Kings Cross. Schools closed for the day,
roads were blocked off. I laughed and laughed, for the snow
amassed two inches at best, and it was gone the next morning.
You still owe me a snowball fight.



IV

I can’t keep a steady enough hand to get the picture right.
The pencil meanders around the page like a lost poet, and then
screeches to a halt, its wayward marks an eyesore against the
fresh white paper in my sketchbook. The pillars in the church
look more like a rickety old staircase, the kind in my
Grandmother’s house, that moans and sighs as you take each step.
I frown, strangle the pencil like a noose, and scratch a huge X into
the page, so hard the point tears through the paper like butter.
I pull the page out of the book, crumple it, leave it in the
dusty corner of the pews. You stifle a laugh, and I stampede
away from you, bruised, insulted. Weeks later, I find that
crumpled drawing in the pocket of your coat.



V

There’s a South African sunset in your smile
and Grecian skies in the whites of your eyes.
Then that blue of your gaze, like Corfu’s seashores.
You shake the sand from Cape Town out of your hair
and let the breeze from Brighton push it out of your face
as the sun swerves through the open window, lighting you up
like a Tuscan star. I peer down at our intertwined hands, and
see the dirt and grime of New York City underneath my fingernails.



VI

If you were planning on me being forgettable,
then, for your sake, I hope I am. Tuck me away like
an old diary, and don’t bother to date the entries. Let it
lie, like all the dead letters whose destination never
welcomed them and that can’t be returned to their sender.
Unread and lost in a dusty bin, soon to become ashes
among other stories that will remain untold, unembraced,
alone. The smell of burnt letters thickens the air so that even
God cannot breathe. You’re a glacier on the sand, and I’m
just a wishful thinker. We dug each other’s graves but, oh, we
made them feel like home. So I’ll think myself sick, as my pen
tries to stall what I know will now take place. Without you,
this city can’t smile, only bear its teeth. Every road I
cross whispers of the loss. Sometimes, peace of mind
isn’t worth the goodbye.



VII

I checked every grocery store in New York, but none
have Jaffa Cakes. I settle for the bland, discounted cookies
moping next to the crackers. Five hours ahead of me already,
I envision you enjoying one, as you check the time on your
watch, grin, and send a single snowflake my way, a fleeting
striking whiteness amidst the grey sidewalks I traverse,
hands in my empty pockets.


VIII

May the Earth always lay its gentle hands upon your head,
and may science and reason steer clear of your timeless heart,
unlike the way it ravaged my own. And, the one task I live to fulfill,
if I dare attempt it – To not let you let me go.



- LAP etc.

And the Funniest Part About It Is

I swear, some divine afflatus
came down on me that night, and I could do no wrong.
“I will charm, I will slice, I will dazzle
I will outshine them all.”
Chugging gasoline, having sex on broken glass.
Don't tell me you didn’t want to,
you’re worse at lying than you are at dancing.
I’m a crazy balloon, the kind without string.
Flitting, flying, finagling, and you can’t catch me, oh no
at least not without your shoes. But I made you take those off
and tossed them from the overpass. Thud, thud. One two.
How different your stride is now!
Listen.
No, stop talking. Can you hear that?
Footsteps, they kept on walking without you.
See? They didn’t need you after all!
You can’t really blame them, because you scuffed them to death
Of course they’d want to get away.
Now every divot in the concrete claws at the soles of your feet
like a broken clothes hanger. What goes around comes around.
You can thank me later, when you're in bed and swollen
and the dye from your wet jeans has bled onto your thighs
making you look blue and bruised.
You always wanted to feel that way, you said.
I’ll be back tomorrow, and we can pick up where we left off
in your car, as we drive underwater.
That'll get your blood flowing, mark my words.



- LAP etc.

Thrice Crowned Queen of the Night

There’s a full moon out tonight
and I hold it between my teeth.
I command the midnight breeze
to hold every single strand of hair
out of my face.

The slick sidewalk surface reflects each step
until two of me walk in unison
one commanding the streets above
and the other seizing those underground.
I keep my pace.

My eyes shine like two round opals
I laugh, and stars fall to the ground.
I twirl the planets on my fingertips
as the sun throbs in my back pocket,
my little friend.

You try to keep up, but can only
hang onto the hem of my dress for
dear life, as I split the air in two.
Your fingernails tear at me, but you
cannot apprehend.

I exhale fog and mist, and each droplet
catches the light like a prism, as I confer with
its spectrums and make a rainbow.
Its arch nestles into the curve of my back
and it walks with me.

Don’t look too closely, for it’ll blind you
when you see the nimbus of my smile.
Come morning, it will fade, as daylight
threads through my bones. But nightfall is mine.
You’ll see, you’ll see.




- LAP etc.

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

David thought the place had a casual, old-school feel to it, something homelike even, that would help her feel at ease. Besides, too many first dates are wasted on fancy restaurants with exorbitant prices and pretentious-tasting meals that never kept you full long enough. Also, what if the date is a total bust? Better to start out small, see if she’s worth it, then take it up a scale on the fifth date or so and bring her to somewhere super nice. No, first dates should definitely be humble, relaxed. But now, as they shifted on the sticky red pleather swivel chairs that squeaked with every movement, he wondered if he had taken the casual thing a little too far. The place didn’t even have menus. The selections were etched in sloppy script on a blackboard above the counter, where they had just ordered their meals – two double-cheeseburgers, one with American cheese and one with Swiss, a large order of fries, one Dr. Pepper and one Diet Coke.
She smiled meekly as their food was brought over by a waiter in a red apron and cargo shorts stained with ketchup. The food was in a plastic thatched basket lined with tissue paper, and the grease of the burgers had dampened the paper until it was see-through. The fries were placed between them, and were clearly already drenched in salt; the tiny particles glistened on them like a sheet of snow. She picked up a fry, wiped the salt off with her forefinger, and chewed it tentatively.
“Good?” He asked stupidly.
“Mmm,” she said, still chewing.
He picked up his burger. The stale bun was cracked on top, its little crusted arteries swarming around the sesame seeds. As he brought the burger to his mouth, a mixture of grease and melted cheese plopped onto the table. The congealed mess made her cringe, and he quickly put down his burger and reached over to the napkin dispenser.
“Oops,” he said, and quickly wiped up the mess. “Well, I’ll take a greasy burger over a burned one any day. Nothing worse than feeling like you’re eating charcoal.”
She giggled politely. “That’s true.” She took the bun off her burger and slowly removed the onions that had settled into the cheese. He watched her with interest.
“Not an onion fan?”
“Nah, not too much.” She replaced the bun. She picked up the massive sandwich and surveyed it for an entry point that would make the least amount of mess. Finally, she took the smallest bite he had ever seen, quickly put down the burger, and chose to return to the plate of fries.
“How is it?” he asked. “This place is supposed to make really tasty burgers.”
“It’s pretty good,” she said. “I’m just working up my appetite.” She sipped her Diet Coke.
“Let me give it a go,” he said. He brought his burger up to his mouth and took a hearty bite, leaving a ring of ketchup and mayo around his mouth. The bun was bland, but gave way to a salty, greasy conglomeration of juicy meat and melted cheese, which was the kind of thing that tasted good at the moment, but you knew you were setting yourself up for an upset stomach in about an hour. He chose to focus on the immediate taste rather than its future adverse effects, and followed his first bite with another of the same magnitude.
“This,” he said between mouthfuls, “is the way a burger should taste!” He nodded towards her burger. “Go ahead, take a bigger bite, I know you can do better than that.”
In the meantime, she had taken to wiping the salt off multiple French fries and making a small pile for herself, at the moment there were about 6. “Don’t worry, I’ll get there,” she said. “But keep it up, the grease looks good on you.”



- LAP etc.