BRANCHES

The thin, long shadows reach through my window and across my bedspread. They remind me that though, long after the sun has taken its rest, the moon stands sentry from above, its gaze gives life to otherwise innocuous figures in an altogether deranged manner. Where once the branch of a tree might wave haplessly from above, it now looms treacherously. Its sharp corners mean to graze the arm of the silent sneakerby. I pull the blanket to my chin and remind myself of the difference between real and imagined sensations only to become acutely aware of the many different forms that pain can take when left to the resting mind.

Thursday evening

Leaping across the crosswalk, I could be an archer, though this thing strapped to my back is in fact a yoga mat. Downward facing dog, cat cow, thump thump, breathe in, breathe out. I could pull an arrow out and send it straight into the warm brown eye of the scruffy man bussing dishes, or I could run a palm along his jaw like a feather duster. I could be brought to tears on a stoop with a brisk breeze and a brittle book. I could be in any city. I could be in any body. But the body is in fact mine and tonight it is lithe and alive and invulnerable. I bring myself here and it is somehow easier to see my self and value the living shit out of it. Thank you.

HOT WATER CYCLE

Unspeakables

I walk into the train and graze eyes with a young man who looks slightly afraid. I want to tell him: "You can look. It's fine. Don't worry. I will mean nothing to you."

I lean back in my chair, fazed by his earnestness. I want to ask him: "How can you know you want me when you don't even know what the steam will smell like after I shower?"

I turn to leave after I've released him softly into his comfortable life. I want to remind him: "You were adventurous once, and ravenous."

But I don't.

HAIKU, C MAJOR

for Shannon

Some mornings I write haiku on scraps of paper. When I have five or so that I don't detest, I put them into an envelope and send them to a pianist in Boston who makes little songs that are seventeen notes long.

A sea creature

I spent many hours last night not being a person, but instead a sea creature; a crustacean perhaps, or a kind of lichen. An anemone maybe. I had little awareness and a very strong grip and I lay awake as the night swam past me, not really affected by the cycle, just holding tight and blinking blankly.