I find a hole to live in,
on 18th Street in Brooklyn.
To pay for the dump, I get a job.
I walk around the hours of the day—
a magic trick—cups and balls.
My roommates, a colony of cockroaches,
just out of grad school,
have been watching me for weeks.
I shred or file large stacks of papers.
I collect smooth stones
outside the journalism building.
Mostly I wish to steal
one night of sleep from the dead
in clothes that don’t fit me.
I am suspended by the sun, apart, torn,
separate from you
deny the truth as long as I can.
My best friend calls to say
her acupuncturist found her another healer–
no longer sure of which skin to pierce.
I can picture her pacing the downstairs
of her new house, absentmindedly picking up a marker
or toy her boys left behind; or dusting
the oak table that centers the dining room—
fingers and thumb pinching
any wisp of stray dust. I see the phone
nestled in the crook of her neck
underneath her dark hair.
Together, we negotiate the expectations
we’ve swallowed over the years. We assert
all the things we meant to.
Her radiant smile waxes
into the full moon of her face.
Call it kindred. Call it crazy.
She has the ability to remind me
that the whole world belongs
to us. Every moment
of our short lives it is easy
to forget. Everyone of us.
I am mincing garlic
for dinner. It is almost
too dark without a light
kindled in the kitchen.
I am listening.
find Gabriella online