Home (poem)

I chose to write it all
down, the modern equivalent
of etches in stone, my words sent
across a wireless net. Like a web,
oh what one we weave, I laid
each letter like a brick until
they became a house big enough
to hold our story. I opened the door.
I invited you in. Look and see
what adorns the walls.
You chose to stay on the porch
and said you are not interested
in discussing this blueprint. So what
do I do with this massive construction?
I will find a way to live inside
these paragraphs, these syllables,
because I know they are my home,
even as you pack up and leave.

Dream Analysis 101 (poem)

On the way there,
I sat in the back seat
of your car and we didn't speak
until we got to the party.
But still we stayed away
from each other until I stood
above the sink to wash
some dishes. Then you came
and stood as close to me as you could.
Even then, we remained silent
until we looked at each other
and you turned to walk away.
"Hey," I said. "Are we going to talk
about what I wrote?" You smiled
in a smirking-knowing way and said, "No."
I said, "Oh," and you left me alone.
Later, I climbed into the driver's seat
in a different car and you sat
in the uncomfortable middle and seemed angry
as I drove us towards the next stop
in our journey. I got lost for a moment
but found my way again without your help
and we arrived where we needed to be
unharmed. Out of the car, we headed in
through different doors.

Tonight Will Be a Lucky Night (poem)

Tonight Will Be a Lucky Night

Wednesday night. Central
Square. Chinese food.
I need a fork.
Across from me, you
use chop sticks.
It feels familiar,
like a date we’ve had
before spending a solid minute
in meditation, working
through what you need
to explain. You tell me
I’m right, about many things.
About the ex, about the new
someone. You say you don’t
want a girlfriend. You say
you spent three hours discussing
this with the other woman
the night before, and I wonder
if she knows that you’re here
with me tonight -- I wonder
what it means to you
to be here with me
tonight. I ask you for nothing
but you offer me words,
explanations, weighted
with honesty, brimming
with details of fall-outs
with the ex, slow starts
with the new, and we
are finally on even ground,
sure-footed. Familiar.
Accepted. Nothing is resolved,
but we’re OK. We’ve said
what we needed to say
and we are still friends,
spend the next hour
and a half in comfortable
language, united in our
commonality, our useful
banter. And as we finally
accept that it is time to go,
you break open your fortune
cookie and smile, say, This one
should be yours. It’s something
about courage. But I think
I got the right one. Sliding out
of the booth, I read mine aloud:
Tonight will be a lucky night.

Stopping His Mind on a Hollow Evening (poem)

-- after Robert Frost

for Leigh

Whose life is this I want to know
His dream is lost in others’ glow
He should not see me waiting here
To watch his patient tapping toe
My swollen mind can’t think so clear
To stop without reason to fear
Between the hard and bending quake
The darkest moment dawning near
He gives me bells and I do shake
Silent, asking if there’s something great
The response is sweeping,
Windy with gripping flakes
His mind is hollow, dim, and neat
But I have nothing for him to keep
And nowhere to go before I sleep
And nothing to say before I sleep

Second Date (poem)

I arrived on your porch,
hair plastered with humidity,
with the downpour of rain
caressing my umbrella
and you turned on
the Red Sox, playing
in the Bronx, sound off, eerie
cheering fans, mouths open, muted,
silent. Unlike us. Chatting
with ease about the game,
how God is
a Yankees fan, laughing
at slingshot jokes. Then
you cook for me, ask me, “Fork
or chop sticks?” and I take
the metal in my palm,
balance my wine glass
in the light clutch of fingers
and talk incessantly
while you stare through your glass
table at my socked foot,
stare intently at my hands
as they move to demonstrate
nothing, interrupt me to say
my nails are painted the color
of our wine. I smile, pleased
you noticed. We amble
to the couch to do what
we’d planned, but here’s
where things go awry.
The technology fails us,
and as you hover, disc and remote
in hand, your roommate returns,
casual and oblivious.
You’re frustrated; I see that.
But I find it funny
that a techie like you
can’t make his DVD player
play. And now our party
is stunted and growing
in number. You’re aggravated;
you say so. But you pull
videos off the shelf and operate
on Plan B. Back on the couch,
in the dark, we’re bookends
on opposite sides, with our feet
pressed together, simply, affectionately,
comfortably. You tell me
I’ll like this movie because
I like to laugh. You noticed.
I smile again. We’re synchronized.
Your roommate joins us,
but only for a few scenes, and then
he disappears to get enough
sleep for his new job
at Starbucks. You and I remain
polar opposites, twisted
on the couch, ready for sleep,
but not with each other.
Your eyes start to close
during the second movie,
and I opt for home at 1:30 AM.
You drive me. You’re disappointed.
I know. Things were broken
tonight. But I came home happy,
remembering the rain,
remembering the night.

An Enigma Wrapped Around a Mystery Inside of a Puzzle (poem)

Is there a better way
to make you care
than saying, “Don’t
you care?” Maybe
it’s silly to think
you’d automatically be
the genuine stretch
of luck I’ve searched for,
that I shouldn’t have
to work to make you see
what’s really going on
(What’s really going on?)
and I want to ground you
in concrete details, the nervous
spike of your hair, the uneasy
lines creasing your smile,
all of this oi-ful energy
pressed in your compacting
muscles as you sit
at your day job at MIT,
while you long to be naked
at parties, body checked
in a hockey rink, stroking
through scripted waters, holed
up with some secret joke
or other. You want
so much, but where
does that leave me?
I know my piece fits
snugly in your puzzle.
And I know there’s a reason
I feel like we never broke
up -- you’ve simply
been cheating on me
for the last five months.
Do you know, though,
do you? Do you, do
you ever...

Beached (poem)

Your voice is drowsy
with desperation, filled
with pockets of sand
soon to be stuffed
in a jar, carried away
by a tourist, any tourist,
though you have called
me. I cringe with anticipation
at the sleep I must knock
you out of, of the dream
I must drain from the sea
of your heart. I can’t
find a voice within myself
to counter yours: shaken,
needing, quietly anxious.
Let the moon-tide drag
you out and see where
tomorrow the ocean will
lay you down, in whose
cradle you can rest,
in whose water you can heal.
Your own, perhaps, in whispers
of Sirens and ships that are lost
until time remembers to find
them, call them home.
Your own altered state
is best realized in blackness
of self-possessed night, far
away from sand, untugged
by the world, let alone me