Shame Less

For shame.

You are everything 

I have been afraid of.

Your distracted debit card is stolen,

your frantic misplaced wallet was right here,

you are red wine reckless with a date’s new sweater,

you are everywhichwayhereandthere.

You are everything

I have always been ashamed of.

And you

are

Wonderful.

If I can love 

you,

how much more 

shame 

less 

might 

I

get to be.

The one who tied the silence to her hair

It was me

who

who what

who tied the silence to her hair

Three decades and one year of it all

braided in like ribbons

tiny strands 

silver and glitter flecked

it cascaded down my nape, my neck, down into the small of my back

The silence

it swung shoulder to shoulder with every step I took

left

right

left

right

A ready reminder of the steady sound

the quiet 

it was binder bound 

with a single pound.

There I had it.

Hinged and three-ringed.

Life’s Little Instruction Book.

but then the silence was too strong

the silence was a scream, a shout, a

what-is-this-about

mantra 

dancing from my brain and seeping through my braids

the silence starved 

it shrieked

there’s nothing left to eat

the silence said

I have no taste for tenderness

It took eleven thousand three hundred ninety-five days

and the entirety of Chicago

before I discovered

at a restaurant on the northside

Lincoln Square

there is an unadvertised menu

Chef’s Specials of the day

They don’t bring it to your table  

unless you make a special request

You have to go up to the hostess and tap her on the shoulder, three quick successions, and say, in ig-pay atin-lay, “ef-chay ecial-spay” before they even admit that it exists

They don’t want the customers to know

They’re afraid of a stampede

I guess

of silhouetted figurines

I guess

night-rioting for righteousness

that if we knew what we might otherwise be eating we’d never ask for standard American fare again

and that our country cannot exist if we don’t all order Family Style, monogamous hamburgers and “freedom fries”, whenever we go out to dinner

I’ve seen the secret menu and

Oh, 

it 

is 

everything.

Liver, rabbit, goose, pâté

it is steaming seared steak, bloody and rare

curry roasted cauliflower

it is herb crusted pork ribs

and fresh mint leaves from a hidden garden on the roof

It is duck confit and crispy ginger chicken

it is brussel sprouts with bacon

green beans with sage and lemon rinds

it is his hands, my hips, 

his lips, my wrists, at midnight

seven separate styles of laughter

exhilarated, annotated, and decidedly not abbreviated

it is a glance, a glimpse from the iris of your eye to the pupil of mine that flashes

Me.

And who wouldn’t love to love themself that way

The silence does not even know itself

It never did

There are three hundred sixty-five days in a year

right now

Each day is long

and loud

And I can hear them all

The line "the one who tied silence to his hair" is from one of Rafael Alberti's "El Ángel Bueno" poems, translated by Mark Strand.

Late Night Phone Call

he is twelve years old
a white boy from Schaumburg, Illinois
with a sloppy barber’s buzz cut

somewhere
in his surveillance-skunked skin
he’s been soaked in enough small screen and YouTube
to know he will tell this story on a date one day
knows the date will understand and maybe laugh along, by then, and even share his own
and once again, perhaps
and then he will not need to announce it anymore
Somewhere
furrowed in his frame, his fortitude
he knows he is, in fact, allowed
he even apprehends that no one has authority to grant permission anyway

But he is only twelve
he’s only twenty-four
he’s only nine years old
He just had his 50th birthday
His retirement party
His bar mitzvah
Just went away to college
Celebrated two decades of marriage
a year of sobriety last Saturday
Watched the birth of his nephew
his granddaughter
his sons
Mourned his mother’s death
his father’s
his lover’s
had a sexual encounter with a woman
and enjoyed himself
Fell in love with two men at the same time
and didn’t tell anyone
He wrote it on his flesh

Inside, his organs are stopped with oratory
prose
he digests a manuscript
written in blotted ink
cursive
careful calligraphy
carvings etched into his esophagus
helvetica and andale mono
american typewriter inserting impression after impression in the walls of his intestines
a, s, d, f
j, k, l, semicolon
a, s, d, f
j, k, l, semicolon
over and over, up and down the 5-9 meters, indenting the folds and furrows of his GI tract
The whole of his endoskeleton is transparent text
if you turned him inside out we could read everything real about him up on the powerpoint screen if only I had a projector handy
and it was the size of a football field

It’s three in the morning
middle of October somewhere in Ohio
and he sits on the gravel in the parking lot of an elementary school
tailbone tight against the ground
doubled-over
arms arched across his torso to hold the inside in
barbershop broomstick by his feet, bloody
above him is the hollowed shell of a pay phone
just a pole stuck into an empty shoe box
he stares at it, maybe he can wish it into being again
because all he wants to do is make a late night phone call
and go back home


The prompt "write about a late night phone call" comes from A Writer's Book of Days 

Behind Lace Curtains

I do not take the gauze.
At the hospital, the nurse offers bandages; 
bleached translucent revolutions, particles of protection
and wants my patient permission to position each unwind 
over everything.  
All of me.
Well, to be fair, she started with the wound.  A tender intention.  After all, it was bleeding out, droplets down to the linoleum.
But I’d been there before.  Recalled the way she’d shrouded me back then, beginning at the gash, then wrapping
up
and
down 
my arms,
my legs,
my feet,
my head,
hands,
fingers 
and toes.
My torso.
Until I was mummified, inhaling through the bleach 
and peeking from beneath a brow of
what--
Before I knew, she’d covered all that too.
And while it sure was true, just like she said, yes, I did no longer bleed,
I also did not see, nor hear, nor eat.
There was no air for breath to sing.  I could not touch nor taste.
Wiggling was hard.
I couldn’t bathe.
It smelled in there.
So now I do not take the gauze.
I accept the nurse, of course.  Her voice is soft 
and it seems she does not fake the grace. 
But I do not take the gauze.
She brings it in (it's still her job) 
and I squint my gaze with gentleness,
unroll the spools and hold the gauzy frost before my eyes.
Turn to face the window 
without a word.
Then we sit, as one,
and watch the sun shine in
behind lace curtains.


The prompt "behind lace curtains" comes from A Writer's Book of Days.