Prospect Hill (Somerville, Massachusetts) ((poem))

Behind my house there is a hill
with steep steps that lead up

to an actual castle. That is where I stand.
The sky is gray but the wind
is more forgiving than usual.
My name means "princess" so

the scene is fitting -- body leaned
against cement barriers, looking up
at the stones holding up the nation's
flag, looking down to drink in
the view spilling from Union Square
to Boston. There is downtown. Reach out.

This is my kingdom. This is my coronation day.

Friends stand near me and we all look
at the path that brought us here.
Ghosts of footprints won't leave
thermal images with these breezes
but we don't need that kind of proof

to believe in what brought us here today.
This is the castle behind my home.
This is the place I have come with friends
to make confetti of the past and throw it up

in the solid wind. Look as it falls down.

Notes from the Urban Cave Dweller, Part 5

Have you ever had someone tell you that your life is exactly like a movie? "Oh, you're just like those people from that rom-com, that one where the guy holds the boom box up over his head and you think he's a moron but then you find out he's the same mystery guy you've been talking to on eharmony for weeks and then all of your friends throw a costume party to get the big reveal to happen, you know, THAT movie." OK, maybe not that movie. But some movie. I've had people tell me my life is like a movie -- When Harry Met Sally. Because my best friend is a man. Or was. I mean, he's still a man, he's just not my best friend anymore. Does that mean the movie's not over? Maybe, but I kind of doubt it.

There's an age-old belief that men and women cannot be friends -- as Kissinger said, "too much fraternizing with the enemy." I never found this to be the case in my life. Most of my close friends over the years have been men. I'm comfortable with them, they're comfortable with me, and I have, on more than one occasion, become the extreme confidant of a guy in distress over a relationship or who just liked a chill drinking partner. It's not that unusual for me to be friends with the guy first and meet his girlfriend later -- the guy is almost always the primary friend in the equation.

This has always been the case for me. I have some phenomenal female friends, but there ain't nuthin' like my boys. Maybe this is the case because my closest friend over the last five-plus years was a guy -- my friends were his friends (and vice versa), so when that's the case, there's an extra dose of testosterone comin' atcha.

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.