Make It Last Forever

 I sit on the steps

outside your apartment,

rage spinning up

my spine.

You are somewhere

down the road,

off in the distance,

anywhere except where

you are supposed to be.

Here.  I stare

at my phone as each

of your messages

ping in.  I'm sorry.

I'm coming.  I'll be there

in five.  Fifteen minutes,

twenty, thirty go by

before I finally see you,

hulking down the sidewalk,

telltale imbalance in your gait.

You're drunk and I'm livid.

What else is new.

You turn up the walk

leading to your door

and you shrug affably,

I'm an asshole dribbling

out of your mouth.  

My jaw sets, my eyes narrow,

disgust flooding my veins.

You wrap me in the limpest

hug of our tenure and you stumble

past me to your door, your keys

fumbling in the lock. Why

didn't I just leave, my brain

scolds while you drunkenly

serve me a drink.  I stayed

because of my mission.

I stayed because I had 

something significant to say.

Staring now at your soft-

focused eyes, I know

you have won this round

of chess.  You have spiked

your brain with poison

just to ensure such victory.

All of this before seven pm on a Sunday.

How can I end it

with someone who'll never

even remember it began?

My cells vibrate just looking at you

and nearly explode 

when you feebly ask me, Didn't

you have something you wanted

to talk about?  You know better

and that's what's the most

infuriating.  You got drunk

before seven pm on a Sunday

simply to avoid the inevitable.

I fold my arms across my chest,

my lips flatlined.  My soul

equally flustered and crushed.

We'll have to talk about it

another time, I say with a gravely

kick.  I down my drink.

And I say goodbye.

Not goodbye forever, just

goodbye for now.  You watch

me go, knowing that this

is a framework you can

live with.  Because

two days later, you'll apologize,

you'll be sober, you'll be clear

in heart and mind.  You'll convince me

to do a re-do and before I can say

what I intend to say, you will place

your hands gently on my arms,

you will look me kindly and lovingly

in the eye and you will say, Look,

I'm going to love you for the rest 

of my life, and I will believe you.

The trouble is, I always believe you.

Drunk and spiraling forever more.

Two Artists, Diverged

  "Two Artists, Diverged"

"Through discipline comes freedom."
- Aristotle

I.

Early on,
it was you

who attached yourself

to my coattails,

asking me earnestly,

how do you do

what you do?

I blinked 

at your curiosity,

wondering what you saw

in me that I simply

could not.  You,

the one with the platform,

the stage, the spotlight,

while all I did was scribble

in the dark.

II.

Later, we'd learn

to balance, our art

leaning lovingly

up against each other.

You learned 

to speak my language

and I learned

to speak yours.  

So fluent were we

that our sheer speed

would confound

any audience

we mustered.

What are you two?

they'd mutter

as they wandered,

confused, away.

III.

I learned 

who I was

by going through

the death of us.

IV.

A psychic

once told me

I'd never become

a world-renowned

writer, but she said,

instead, that my writing

would be therapeutic. 

Daily, I scribble

into the ether

each and every thought

that pings my brain

and what awakens me

the most is what I've learned

from you.  Each day, 

I sit down, I dedicate minutes

and hours to the plunking

of words onto the page

and even though they're not

all about you, so many

are derived from the discoveries

I've made through my drive

to overcome, to stand up,

to set my heart free

from any cage 

of my own creation.

Without this daily practice,

where would I be?

Who would have ever uncovered

all of these strange mysteries?

V.

My art still leans lovingly

up against the memory

of yours, my patience

an everlasting grace.

Especially on days

like today when everything

before me is a reflecting pool,

ripples expanding

in only refreshing ways,

I think of you with love.

Now well into this afterlife,

my soul can't help

but evolve at a rapid

pace.  And I wonder

what discipline, if any,

you've thought to embrace --

This poem was originally written July 18, 2023 for the Daily Writing Rewind project.

Mental Sprawl

 I.

My apartment doesn't allow dogs

yet my upstairs neighbor's dog barks

anytime a floorboard creaks

and I wonder at the nerve.

II.

I spent the day awash in action steps,

the self-declared love language 

of a professor I once had.

I turned to the person seated

next to me and I said, "George,

I'm the sort who looks at the pile

of Popsicle sticks and thinks

how can we just use these

instead of applying for another

round of grants. "I'm not saying

it's a permanent solution, 

but it's easier than groveling

for cash," I add while George

smiles wryly on.

III.

Later, I'd sprawl on my bed,

still in my Sweater Weather attire,

my body akimbo like someone

should trace me with chalk.

My phone would ping with a message

from someone who knows me

all too well, sharing a podcast

he simply knows I'll like.

Somehow it's this

that shakes me out of my stupor

and sends me to the shower

where I stand in the steam,

waiting to see what song

will play next.

IV.

It's a game I play sometimes

with the spirits -- an ask

and answer, if you will.

I pose a question and hit

shuffle, often delighted

by the lyrics served up

in succession.  Tonight,

the first tune went

We say "I love you" 

but we ain't together

followed by what's goin' on,

coyly answered with rumour has it

I'm the one you're leaving her for.

It made me laugh because,

as the next song declared,

it's a mad world.

V.

My neighbor's dog goes quiet

and I wonder what makes it

get so frantic sometimes.

I wonder what makes me get

so frantic sometimes.

I wonder when all of this

exhaustion will exhale

out of me, my lungs

so cleanly emptied

and ready to be refilled.

I wonder when my healed

soul will shed its final pound

of fear.  I wonder, I wonder,

as the final song trails off:

Hey you, say you wanna 

start over again...?

Zora Raglow-Defranco gave me a dog, a Popsicle, and a sweater.

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

With Love

“With Love”

               for Liam

You almost died

during RuPaul’s Drag Race

on a frigid Friday

night in Boston.

The same cancer

that killed my father

threatens your, life, too

and all I could picture

was my childhood body

rushing, love-fueled,

straight towards

a hospital bed,

stark-white 1980's health

care that left him wired

and tubed in a way

that paralyzed my brothers

lingering in the doorway.

But I wasn't scared.

I ran right in.

I found out

it was time to say

goodbye to you

while I sat

at a brightly lit restaurant

in Cleveland Heights

where I was dipping 

my kibbie into its sauce.

I didn't know

what to do with my hands

or my face or my voice,

after that brief phone call

where I'd had the fortune

to turn to my friend, someone

who'd met you

only once, and she let out

a gasp when I shared

this grave news.

Context, though,

is everything, and what

we'd been discussing

was pre-birth planning

and souls and the awesome

power of everlasting love,

the pillars and powers

of all that exists exponentially,

far beyond what our human

brains can begin

to comprehend.

You and I,

we had our moments,

our evens and odds,

our tough disputes.

Your partner is the one

who partnered us,

who brought us into

each other's lives

and left us there

to figure it out

while he mixed cocktails

and set out the snacks

on Drag Race nights

for so many years.

I'll always think of you

snugged on the couch

in my old office, piled

with yoginis guzzling

whiskey in cheap glass

carafes.  A singalong

begins, you, our pied piper,

belting out of the classic

I will always love you

while your partner sulked

in a chair outside the door,

impatiently ready to leave

this party you and I

had only just begun.

I'll always think of you

with love.

Set free now

from the pain

of your human body,

attacked by the very same

malignancy that took my father's life,

I spontaneously wrap

my arms tight around my body,

invisible-you I sense in this

embrace as I say out loud,

Thank you, you are loved.

It's quiet here, six hundred

fifty-odd miles away

from where you will draw

your last breath.

I hear that, though,

that final sigh.

I see it pulse

through this

white light --

2/4/2023

Invisible, It Seems

They say women
over the age of forty

are invisible, socially

speaking, and I find this

to be true.  I stand

in front of automated

faucets that refuse

to see me while I wait,

water flowing

for everyone else

but me.  At home,

I have these robots

that work for me.

They turn on my lights,

vacuum my floors, 

and remind me where 

I need to be.  I installed

them and trained them

and made them my own

so they obey my commands.

I am useful to them

because I have made them

useful to me.

There's no kindness

in standing, hands out,

desperate, with no water

in response to my pleas.

Defiantly, I stand here.

Invisible, it seems.

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

My Starling

A pretend story

played out on my screen

about a man and a woman

in recovery from grief.

In it, they needed different

methods to face themselves

before they could truly

face each other.  

But when they did,

they did.

I watched from my perch

while a notice pinged,

a sign from the cosmos

that when you're near me,

my mere presence makes you

dig deep into who you are.

Alive and energized and 

never bored when we're together,

that's what is written

by powers bigger than you

or me alone.

But here's the trick:

you can't be

in control.

Nor can I of you.

I thought how odd

to see this message pop

out of hiding while a starling

dive-bombs a famous actress

on my television. A knowing-

character says that starling pairs

partner forever but a quick

google search reveals infidelity

is likely -- though nothing's matched

as strongly as that first chosen mate.

But I like the romance offered

by the movie, the simple twining

of healing hearts, and I root

for love to win in the end --

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

You Are Welcome Here

I.

My building's front door

bangs open and shut

and I ask out loud, Is it you,

are you here, is it you?

II.

Twice since I've lived here

friends with no connections

to each other spotted the same

spirit lingering in my hallway.

I smile, though, poetically

unafraid to be curious

without asking anyone to leave.

III.

Before I moved in, someone

who knows me well smirked

when she learned of the cemetery

across the street from this place.

Don't bring anyone home with you,

OK? she said.  I smirked back.

Can't make any promises,

I shrugged.

IV.

Years before that, I sat with one

of my dearest at our favorite

breakfast spot and she said,

with immense certainty 

while scrolling through her feed

that there were no witches

nearby.  Not on Instagram,

I said, my gaze floating up

to the warm, blue sky.

V.

I'm not a witch, but my mother

used to dress as one every Halloween,

cloaked in black with a pointy hat

while she silently handed out candy

to terrify the children.  Anymore,

I wear every color under 

the sun and I throw my arms open

to anyone who's also here, like me,

to bask in the lightness of love --

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

They Call Me Wolfstar (poem)

I am the bringer of freedom,

Watch out.

There is a need for my kind

of utopia, a need for the upright,

upstanding force of my force,

my taskless, tactless, tenacious

teeth chattering churning of appeasement

on Earth, amen, praise be.

I lock and load in the lotus

position, deep meditation

massaging my cerebral influx

of nocturnal disasters.

I am a lightning storm.

Dance deep.

In time, I will end wars

with the promise of more wars

and I will instruct peace

by breaking into pieces.

Nothing distracts me from my course.

Turn now.

You will watch me climb

from the dream gutter

and dig Shakespearean roots

out of Sexton gardens.

Nothing lets you choose

like my lack of choice.

One way to lead is by love,

another by example.

So I will come with my torch

to reign.  

Aim your propaganda at my head

if I aim to be your propaganda.

I am off.

Turn on my light.

How do you want to use me

this time?

Never mind that.

Never mind me at all.

E is for Enchiladas

"If God dwells inside us like some people say He does, 

I hope He likes enchiladas because that's what he's getting."

~ Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey

I.

I've only ever been impressed by one car in my entire life and it was a Cadillac Escalade.  My best friend from college, Corey, and her fiance-at-the-time, Mike, had rented a pair of white ones for their wedding party to drive around in on the wedding day.  She picked me up from the airport in one and I felt genuinely gorgeous in the posh, elevated, extravagant, unnecessarily over-the-top sensation of being in this super rad vehicle.  That whole weekend, man.  It was one of the best of my life.  Getting picked up from the airport in an Escalade was just the start of unforgettable, wonderful experiences.  

II.  

True story:  my younger brother Josh once fell into the Euphrates River.  The Euphrates, as you may or may not be aware, is a major waterway in Western Asia.  It is also extremely polluted.  My brother took a tumble into the water, much to the chagrin of the people he was with, and a delicate cleanup procedure had to be implemented.  I can only imagine the whole scene -- my brother is extremely tall and very friendly and Mid-Western.  How could anyone get angry at this lovable giant?  They couldn't!  But grumpy -- they could definitely be grumpy.  And the cleanup?  It was a success.

III.

Once for Tom's birthday, I gave him a DVD of the movie Stepbrothers.  I thought he'd think it was funny.  I gave it to him at a trivia night at The Druid in Inman Square, handing it over in a felt gift bag shaped like a ladybug, a symbol that is of extreme importance to me.  The bag had handles that Tom looped around his wrist like a handbag, clutching the gift to his chest for the rest of the evening as we played trivia with our friends and drank beer and whiskey and it's one of the most endearing memories I have of him.

IV.

On my flight to Ohio this Christmas, there was a girl a few rows behind me who cried -- moaned -- for the last thirty minutes of this seventy-five minute flight.  She was maybe eight and only slightly eclipsed by the two-year-old who sat directly behind me kicking my seat with great gusto for the entire seventy-five minutes while he parents cheered at a football game they were watching.  Near the end of the flight, as the girl's moaning increased, so did her mother's frustration as she said through audibly gritted teeth, "Have a DRINK, Margot."  Have a drink, Margot.  We all wanted a drink, Margot.  And we all got one as soon as the plane landed and we dispersed to our final destinations.

V.

I knew God was real when I was eight-years-old. I was kneeling in church during a Maundy Thursday service.  Maundy Thursday is part of the Christian Easter holiday -- it's "Good Friday Eve," the day celebrating The Last Supper and other events leading up to Jesus' crucifixion.  During the service, the altar is stripped of everything -- the ceremony is very moving.  And the first time I ever experienced it, the minister, George Ross, had the church lights dimmed  and the most poignant organ music playing.  I was in the choir so I was so close to it all.  There were no words spoken -- only actions -- only movement -- only event.  It was the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced in my life.  I knew right then, without explanation or need for one, that God was part of this human experience, and it filled me with the most powerful form of love.

Written for the ABC's of 2016 blog project

Menage a tois (a Boston poem)

I. We polished off sixteen ounces of So-Co 

on a Tuesday night, savoring the last 

few swallows around four a.m. We were watching 

West Side Story and Tom cried 

when Tony fell dead, when Maria stood up 

for nonviolence. Whitney said she didn’t 

like the movie. As always, I was somewhere 

in the middle, content to hum and sing 

about love and rumbles and all things passionate. 

 II. Tom colored the nails on his right hand 

black with Whitney’s good Sharpie 

and drew symbols of anarchy on his wrist. 

While she was in the bathroom, he asked me 

what else he should draw. I said a heart. 

He put an arrow through it. 

III. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said 

to me -- “You know, honestly, I have to say, any man 

who has even had the chance to touch you 

is the luckiest man...” Oh, that Tom, 

who told me again that I should call 

 the lead singer in his band. I balked. Whitney sat 

 beside the bassist with her arms folded across her chest.