Finally, we decide
that the loneliest world is the one
where words exist. Every letter has to compensate
for something transient and unforgiveable. When
I was a child, I caught my father staring at me
early in the morning, his expression an
exclamation of missed chances. And did you
see the long, delicious wink that
stranger gave you? The one pure
language is what we say out loud in our
sleep. There lies the reality
of all these silent spaces. Once, I said, god
can only exist on a blank page. Everything written
ceases to be a miracle, stops being
a secret. The heart breaks at the sound
of a leaf falling and all I am allowed
to say is wrapped in the atonement of someone else's bewildered
cry: Look! The sun!

What I Would Have Missed Had I Died Today

And I think nothing much, except for, maybe, my father leaning on a wall (his favorite) holding an empty ceramic cup, (not his favorite) the one with small pink flowers lining the curve of the handle. Maybe I would have missed the distance he traveled everyday from his past to the present; I know this is what he does because the empty cup is a signal for me to stop and not exist, because these minutes are all he has and he doesn't want me in them. So it is you, he said when he turned around finally to face me.

I would have not seen my mother walking down an anonymous street without noticing me. She does not say hello because she is dead and the dead no longer know the living, or which heart they once occupied.

I am certain that I would also have missed that lone bird's journey across a sky that has gone weak with worry for those walking under it.

I would have missed the slow, dry wind and the door creaking open with a message: come out and see how much every flower loves you.

I would have walked past my life without seeing you for the first time. You looked me in the eyes and said: I am never lonely. I believed you and I wanted so much to put my hand on your lap but I didn't because moments, sometimes, exclude us. Even the most honest ones exclude us. It exists for itself; it's selfish that way.

I would have missed that terrible meal I had for lunch: a dead fish staring at me with its one good eye, it's mouth an O that was a balloon flying off to a happier, more consistent alternative.

I would have missed complaining to anyone who would listen how unsatisfied my body is with living.

I would have missed taking my glasses off, then seeing a world where everything is color without form, and therefore, without strife.

I would have missed asking you how you feel, do feel better, do you love me now? I would have missed saying: I am the name from where few return; the name you put between all these self-imposed distances.

I would have missed how my heart caved in, seeing the last green leaf buried inconspicuously in the pavement. I would have missed remembering that under all this hardness is a life that will continue long after I cease to be.

I would have missed the sad sigh of a dream that I remembered suddenly while talking to a strange boy who said he'd like to swim naked in the groove of my mouth.

I would have missed waking up to a dream where I was a potato and someone's hand was carving a smile into my brown blank face.

I would have missed the news about the girl who has gone missing for 54 days.

I would have missed saying the first prayer I've said in over a decade. The last time I said God's name was when I was 12 and a faraway volcano erupted that night and the next morning, there was snow on the rooftops for the very first time.

I would have missed my brother say, Today, I have a test and I did not study for it. I would have missed forgiving him, silently, for being the weight that I never could carry wholly.

I would have missed knowing the road home and how lonely I felt walking it.

I would have missed the sound of the sea in the wind saying forgive, let go, believe.

Talking About It

Most often than not, our get-togethers
conclude with talk of how we would each prefer
to die. One is almost certain that she would die by fire,
another a car accident, still another the big C, which
isn't that big anymore, we tell her. We shout our suppositions
at each other, explaining why ours is the best exit. Out
to impress, I tell them
that at the end of my life, I believe I will see a man standing, uncertain
at first, in my living room in the
dark, holding a gun in his right hand. He would ask me a
question that I would not know how to answer and my
ignorance compels him to shoot me.
My friends give an almost silent purr of approval. How romantic, they
say, as if this kind of end is worth seeing through. We sit quietly
for awhile, each lost in our private fears.
If this was a night for honesty, we would
tell each other how we suspect each of us would go. None
of those endings would include a death in October, or a man,
or a conversation, even. No one has the heart to
speak the truth when everyone is having such a good time.
The band launches into its last song and we know it as well as we know
what we'd all wear to our funerals. I let out a low sob at the exact time
the music ends and that lone sound extends in the night air, making
my friends laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

to anna

I want to tell you that in this light,

I see you as an orange. I hold

oranges in high regard, you know. The first fruit;

in itself, essentially alone. I can see the beginnings

of history's rough seeds in you, their importance

half-hearted but hidden in your pulpy sadness.

Preserve your integrity --- repeat I AM AN

ORANGE. Repeat it 10 times 'til the words come out singing.

It is important to believe in something unimportant--

like phone calls of dead soldiers to their dead wives, like the

solitary flight of birds in the afternoon. Let your prayers be

addressed to yourself. After a rough day

say, Dear orange, I thank you for the strength

you have summoned today.I admire how stoic you

looked in the middle of rows of

other oranges. I liked how I could still

tell you apart from all of them.

After that, sleep. Don't wallow in your

orange-y thoughts about your orange-y day.

Avoid wondering why

no one has picked you among all the others.

You have watched the process

so many times through the shop's

glass window--- the grocer's hand

like a mime's, placing each orange in a

paper bag, so tenderly, as if they were

short-tempered gods. Time will come,

my young orange, when the fruit that is you

would be realized as something more.

Don't be afraid of being alone. Learn to whistle.

When someone does eventually seek you out, don't hang

all your hopes on his shoulders. If you do,

do not be surprised if he flails under

the weight of crossed-fingers and afterglow.

But grow in yourself, be stout and happy

with your distinct roundness. Anyway,

you do not have to listen to me.

I am old and the light

has not decided on anything. At times it withholds more than

it tells. But you are not my story

and you are no one's fruit.

Like right now, the wry twist of your mouth

says that you are already far away,

beyond the once-mighty breath, rolling

on and on; freedom -- the only sound that keeps you going.