Cardinal

I made space for the loss by putting away so many others I’d lost count. Most of my friends knew this predicament well. I wasn’t alone in this. I was alone in this. A fairy godmother had told me to hold something back as a secret just for myself. As usual, I took it literally, choosing a locket with no photo inside. At first, I thought I’d fill the cardinal enameled trinket with something—a lock of hair, an image of my love. But the longer I left it empty the less likely it was I’d find just the right thing. I kept thinking, invisible tattoo, boat adrift, permanent roam.

Vignette

She could hear a barcarole as if she were in a new house: someone else’s. Rolls of questions kept coming, sticking to earlier ones, increasing in gravity, unspooling. Where were her poems? The ferry of childhood? What had become of her dead friend’s books—too many to keep track? It wasn’t that she’d died exactly but had to come through: through a co-op and a girls’ bathroom where an old woman made fun of the her.  Meanwhile, I could hear my own assassin and realized this was beyond strange. No stupid girl I. Enjoy your life, said the ghost.

My Twenties

I took the roundabout way to get there. Through the swim shop, the old-fashioned ice cream parlor, other women’s kitchens where I brought my own dish. The coast I knew was no longer a coast but a waterway, and this soured the whole affair. I’m not saying I no longer loved you, just that things had become too much: the salty air, the almost constant drenching, your anxious attempts to get me back. We were two sides of the same person. You, me, everyone we knew.

Kismet

One day we’ll get the message to start packing our bags, scoop up our puppy and run for our lives. For now, this was happening on TV, but deep down we knew it was us losing everything. It was us huddling in a tunnel with our neighbors, building a fire and trying to find food. If we waited long enough, would someone rescue us? Would we ever be able to go home, resume our jobs, send our kids back to school? A woman next to us offered us some bread. Others had blankets  they were willing to share. There is no end to our suffering.

The Prophet

There were years I couldn’t speak at all. You would visit, bringing all kinds of bread and cookies, stews and starfruit. I sat on my dais crying, hardly recognizing you, my dearest friend. Days rolled like this. Nights over yonder with the signs and symbols of beasts who also came to visit. I hardly expected the change in season: especially now that we were living in all seasons simultaneously, due to our recklessness, due to the fog we cherished. Meanwhile, you had been sounding the alarm—each time you came, you detailed the changes. You were deemed a false prophet, a puppeteer, because none of us wanted to hear it.

Roam

I conjure it and so it comes. Meanwhile, the statues stare at me, waiting for a timely answer. What will I say? Will I run? Of course, I will. You would too if you were being chased by lions who, however gorgeous, aren’t exactly friendly to humans. It seems increasingly my fellow countrymen don’t understand this logic, I write to my Canadian friend, to which he agrees: Yes, it seems your country’s become almost ungovernable, not to mention the number of guns. It’s everywhere—the melodrama, the question of the real, the feel of things increasingly tinny. But who am I to complain when I’ve had it so good for so long, I respond. Where shall I roam?

Notes on Survival

People have to move around only they’re in cages.

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The man behind me has lost his watch and keys.

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Where there’s an organic saint.

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The nutshells you left won’t sweep themselves.

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If you hold your breath to 100. If you hold your breath twice as long.

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Follow me. Otherwise, devise your own plan.

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The bedside lamp is broken. No, the other one, the one on my side.

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I can’t promise you a lifetime; it’s day by day. How long is too long?

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The forever has stalled.

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The sink has generated its own downward draft like the undertow of an ocean, and there is a leak in the ocean.

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What gave you the idea I’d come to your rescue? We’re not in this together.

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Felt and not seen or scanned and not felt.

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Only what you can.

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Fly low. Lift your arms.

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Yes, the rich occupy a completely different pod. And no, it’s not a real forest.

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The poshest Ralph Lauren store you can imagine only for billionaires.

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A basement where the rest of us.