Ghosts
A Poem About Endings But Also About The End
How many lives can you try on before
you look at yourself in the glistening drop
and feel estranged
The body aches from each life
I have endured
I am having a hard time
Differing scaffolding from structure
from truth
Memory is a dangerous place
For it is never fixed
Longing to continue but
It has ended me many times
I am burning
Like a cigarette without an end
Prolonged suffering
I am trying to be comfortable
I attempt to be indifferent
But the more it drags
The more your lips inhale
The life out of me
I am dying.
After Melbourne Aftermath
I
When my first dog, Killer, died,
I was pained more by my mother’s pain
Than by the fact of his death.
I cried at my great-aunt’s funeral; I did
Not really know her. But everyone was
Crying, and so I did.
When my grandfather passed, it was a relief.
A year of one-sided conversation must have
Been exhausting, so when the time came,
It was a joy to appeal his suffering.
My grandmother's death shocked me. We
Talked about AOC and journalism vs poetry
The night before her cold, bruised, lifeless self
Was dropped off at the church.
I believe her
To be in the house on the hill; we don't talk
Often, but sometimes she comes to me in a dream.
II
I knew I was in love on the twenty-hour bus ride.
I read about heartbreak and love so often,
I studied it almost. I thought I could master it,
But when the time came, all my body had
The strength to do was stay.
I cried on my dad's shoulder and asked my
Mother why she never prepared me for the pain
That is giving yourself whole,
For that loss has been
Far more painful than any carnal separation.
I’ve Been Going Down to the River
I sit on the same block of grass
every day.
The man is still asleep
on the left side bench; he faces
the water—a mystery unresolved.
Somewhere
between 10:30 and 11 a.m.,
a bald man sits down
on a lawn chair, right in front of me.
At first, I felt unsafe, but
it’s been a month. We are a family.
The birds and the geese
make me smile. I sit under a tree
to catch enough shade so I can stay
and find myself thinking about why
I keep leaving.
I like the way the paddleboarders
stand in the middle of the water, looking
small, and
how small must I look to
the drivers on the highway above me.
The way the jet skis make an ocean out
of the sad and tired Hudson.
I think of home, and I think of him. I think
about the times I have denied myself living.
Look at the bees
I once ran away from. The monarch
butterfly kissed my right ankle today.
I am not lonely anymore.
I can smell the water, and I can’t remember
my best friend’s name. I open up my book
and re-read the same line over and
over.
The runners smile at me, and the elders wave,
The question of whether or not
you can go home again.
I have been going down to the river.
I believe that love that is true and real creates a respite from death.
—Ernest Hemingway’s ghost, Midnight in Paris
Autopsy: Postmortem
1. Black sweater, paint stains on both arms.
2. Terracotta shirt— fucking awful color.
3. Green and patterned socks under two pairs of boots.
4. Silver ring with an oval-cut black stone on a distant ring finger.
5. Chain-like gold-dipped ring on a familiar ring finger.
Tanning chair on the roof, broken yet steady. In a drawer, coasters from bars on the East Side. Two toothpicks with silver detailing. Time card from the neighboring coffee shop. Coffee, bagel, coffee, bagel, iced latte with sugar. Gimlet over rice and Geisha Vesper. Uber ride, 9 minutes. Bleecker Street, the B train. Cherry blossoms and laughing children. Mozzarella sticks and beer. Target bag. 8-ball tattoo and 8-ball sweater. Rummikub, orange wine, and mind games. Neutrogena makeup wipes and someone else. A third person’s body in a bed I wanted to be mine. The 6 train and four stops. Two birthdays, menthol cigarettes, and almost warm weather. The waltz at the bodega and the men grinning. Italian, finance, 25, betrayal, and other arms around me. The Whitney Museum, a second chance, and 10 minutes. Your dad, acid reflux, and a drunk sister. Hair on the floor, the pillow, and your mouth. Barcelona vs. Paris St. Germain. The West Side Highway, being chased by rats, running in opposite directions, the bus stop, and people on the way to Washington, D.C. Deli grilled cheese. Tennis, Celsius, and your ex-girlfriend’s ghost. The rain and soaked clothes, my soaked cheeks, and my first love and his ghost. Big revelations and immaturity, fear and big fear, pride and anger and denial. St. Patrick’s Day, twice. Two foreign tongues coming together to make a language unknown to its makers. Broken door and broken heart, and wishing to be new again. A poetry book, the night, the fire escape, and an argument. The Brooklyn Bridge and FaceTime, half-truths and half-asks, Central Park, almost the end, and something’s wrong. Philly and Philly cheesesteak. The Titanic (1). The construction and the complete breaking down of walls within me. Green, my ex-roommate, 3rd Avenue, pool, and
wanting things was not enough.
(1) Have you ever let the body bruise and rot and go bad?/ Have you ever let death inhabit you/ So closely that your only responsibility is to exhale/ Without inviting the next breath in?/ Not everyone loves but everyone desires./ Have you? And have you done it well? Did you splash the sake into the glass?/ Did you see us in the reflection?/ Drowning,/ Letting go.
Generational Trauma
Mortalidad/Elogio
Te tengo miedo
de la misma
manera en la
que alguna
vez temí el
fin.
Ahora temo el
final sin haberte
honrado, devuelto,
confesado.
