{ Frailty }

So this is

Frailty.

And it is terrifying.

These limbs are but shadows of the powerful

Arms and legs they were before.

This heartbeat is but a whisper of the pounding

Pulse is used to be.

And these eyes are but clouded versions of the piercing

Lights they once were.

And now these muscles have slacked

So that this body feels a burden too heavy to bear.

And these fingers have fall'n limp

So that they cannot hold the pen they are so accustomed

To cradling

Between their feeble tips.

And thus this frailty

Taunts my being with a malice marked by memories--

Memories of what once was

And is no more.

{ 21 }

First we add the finger paints

And the scraps of paper laden with dragons--

Scaly,

Green,

And lopsided.

Each scribble represents the labors of my tiny hands--

Driven by an imagination spanning the universe--

Directed by feeble attempts to communicate

The dreams and aspirations

Of a five year-old.

Then we add the cleats and jerseys,

The cargo khaki camo shorts

With pockets for toads and pens and paper and bubble gum.

With these items come the years of sorting through identities--

Trying on new ones before tossing them out for the

Latest

And

Greatest

Trend that suited the agenda of my middle school mind

As I tried to pilot my way through puberty

And muster enough courage to like the girl I saw every morning

When I looked in the mirror.

Next come the plastic cards

Stamped with my name--

All bearing my picture--

Giving me freedom

In the form of licenses and credit cards and school IDs.

These objects are smaller than my preschool portraits

Or preteen wardrobe,

But they bear the weight of the years I spent

Learning what to make of words like

Potential.

And they are pocket-sized testaments of

My adventures maneuvering vehicles and navigating

High school.

But now

It is time to add life-long friendships and metro cards,

Marked up textbooks and apartments keys,

Transcripts and heartaches.

These are the things that remind me I am not the little girl

With crayons between her thumb

And her forefinger.

And these are the things that show me I have outgrown

Prom dresses and sweet sixteens.

And when the stuff of which my past is made

Is tallied,

It equals the sum total

Of twenty-one years.

It equals

A life.

Jerseys and puberty,

Crayons and all.

{ Attic }

Lonely thoughts creep through the cobwebs

While wisps of smoke lace the air near my face,

Reminding me of tobacco--

And your old corncob--

A pipe worn by years of hanging on the edge of your mouth,

Bruised by your fingertips,

Saturated with the memories you wedged into its stem.

Sunlight trickles through the rafters

As I lean back on the creaking floor.

It moans and mutters and mumbles under my weight--

Telling me I am a tyrant for forcing it to bear my body.

I tell it now is the time for quiet.

Yet it assaults my palms with dirt and splinters,

Reminding me of the days when my fingers ran freely along

These smooth oak floors.

Those were the days when armies marched between the chairs

That now stand ever silent--

Draped in sheets--

Ghosts of splendors long forgotten--

Days when our tin soldiers led the charge to victory.

Those were the Sunday afternoons when you and I

Would crouch in our church clothes

And conquer India

Before supper

And Somalia

After dessert.

You told me about the war,

And I devoured your tales of far away places

Like chocolates on a summer afternoon.

I remember the infantries that lined these boards

When once the world seemed large.

You were the towering giant

And I your eager accomplice.

But looking at the covered sofas and aging trunks,

I realize it is I who am large and the world that is small.

And now there is no one to tell me

About the far scents of curry and jasmine.

The dust is interrupted

By the tears that seep from my eyes.

Those are the only armies I see any longer.

And these soldiers march on relentlessly--

Dampening my cheeks

And soiling my shirt--

As they let my mem'ries leave stains on my face.

And you--

With your corncob pipe--

Have left me to play war all alone.

And now the thoughts that creep through the cobwebs

Have taken up residence in my mind.

And I know that for now

They are here to stay.

{ Emptiness }

I look around my empty apartment.

The walls are bare,

Screaming at me through the blank abyss of a white

That is not so very white

And a nakedness that is clothed in scuffs and stains.

The dishwasher hums in unison with the box fan,

Each one whispering of a tomorrow that will be spent in other places--

Away from here--

Some place where the walls are silent because they are draped in color.

But for now,

As I sit next to boxes piled one on top of the other, on top of the other,

On top of the other,

I realize that my life has been half deconstructed,

My good-byes are half way over,

And my will to keep pushing more than half way spent.

Because I am tired.

And the tension in my muscles has slacked so that the task of moving

From point A to point B

Seems insurmountable.

And these eyes--

The ones that eagerly devoured my environment several months ago--

Only want to be tucked in by my soft eyelids.

They are tired of looking at this disheveled apartment,

And I don't blame them.

My year--with its memories and its heartaches--has been stuffed in

Cardboard.

And somehow, the memories seem less rosy

The more they are packaged in boxes.

There is a burning in my veins,

And there are sobs creeping up the walls of my throat--

Waiting to break free from my mouth.

So I keep my lips wedged together, hoping that I will not be asked

To speak,

Because then I will not be able to keep myself from crying--

And now is not the time for that.