{ My People }

My people

Came the deep and soothing tones

As God Almighty uttered the words to those whose ears had been attuned to listen.

And from His mouth came the history of nations,

A story of matter formed ex nihilo--

Of flesh carved out of clay.

My people

Came the clamoring roars of a voice grieved by betrayal--

Stained by anger--impregnated with longing.

And from His thundering heartbeats came a rhythme of judgement--

A proclamation of punishment,

A warning of destruction--

Because His people had turned away

And become strangers before their God.

My people

Came the whispers of a broken body

As His limbs hung on splintering beams of shame.

And from His cracked and swollen lips came the words of a lover

And a savior--

Came the words of a healer

And a victor--

Came the words of a God whose name is Immanuel,

Who dwelt among the same people who had deafened their ears so many years before.

My people

He will come to say with the regal voice of the King known as I AM.

And on that last day His people will answer.

{ American Dream }

Tightly regimented hours of self-indulgence,

Mixed with pixilated chronologies

Of minute minutes

Seasoned with generous helpings

Of absent todays

Spent mapping out tomorrows:

That is who I am.

Wispy plans for years to come

Pervade the murky sidewalks

Of my memory lane

While I sprint towards the distant intersection

Of wanton excess.

But I never seem to reach the elusive goal that is

My future,

Because--

For some reason--

It is always

Now.

But Now is not a currency I am used to dealing with:

I am not content with the moments on my doorstep--

Cannot focus on the seconds surrounding my body--

Unable to grasp what it means to live in the here--

To live

In the Now.

Rather,

My eyes are fixed on that fluorescent light--

The one at the end of my tunnel--

Where I will burst into the paparazzi-filled arena

And experience the comfortable victory

Of the realization

Of my plans.

I can feel the pulse in my body beating to the rhythm of instant

Gratification--

Of permanent

Relaxation--

Or everlasting ease in an economy

Fixated on me,

Me only,

And me always.

And so I will strive

For a prize I know I can easily attain--

An empty victory coated in caramelized commercialism--

A bucket of disappointment at the end of

My credit card

Rainbow.

And when I have done all that--

When I have wedged myself into this

Confining

World of self-indulgence,

When I have given up on the life I thought I wanted,

When I have shredded all the blank checks

I used to write my future,

And when I have set fire to the 401K

I thought was worth having--

I know

You will not forget me.

I know

You will still be waiting.

And I know

You will still

Love me.

Because that is who

You are:

A cleansing breath of the Majestic

Amid the all-consuming narcissism

Of my American Dream.

{ Little Letters }

It only took four sentences--

Seventy-nine words--

And in a moment I was reminded

Of how very much

I miss you.

And it only took twenty seconds for me to skim the lines

You had scratched out

Telling me you are still there--

Still digging your toes into the moist soil of an old continent--

Still that person I remember from the hazy yesterdays

Of our younger years.

And I only had to glance at the name on the letter

Before my heart

Leapt against my ribcage--

And my mouth

Drew back to reveal a girlish smile--

And my eyes

Glowed with a gentle warmth--

Because that

Is who you are.

That is who we are.

And that is why,

After all these years,

I can still say

I love you

And mean it.

{ A Manhattan Workout: Dear Upper East Side Mothers }

Start with the neck:

Slowly move it side to side,

And watch the people

You all too often ignore on your daily walks

To the store.

A stiff neck will serve you worse than aching joints

When age has finally caught the express to

Your body after years of

Traveling on the local.

Remember those are mothers on the sidewalk--

Not obstructions.

And those are students in the station--

Not pests.

And those are conversations you are hearing--

Not static noise.

There is a world of lives surrounding yours.

For better neck muscles,

Start noticing it.

For stronger biceps and forearms,

Pick up your child.

Lift him up each time his hands reach for yours,

Clutch him close enough to smell the lingering scent

Of Cheerios clinging to his body,

And rock him to sleep each night

As if it's the last time you will ever

Get to hold him.

There will come a time when--instead of picking him up--

You will only get to pick up after him.

And those will be the days when you wish

You could have held his small body

Just a little

Longer.

For your abdomen,

Laugh until your sides hurt.

Crouch down to talk to your child--

On his level.

Roll on the floor with him,

And see the world from the only angles he knows.

Chase after him with smiles,

Scoop him up off of the sidewalk,

And swing him around and around and around

Until his laughter ingrains itself in your ears

And you cannot help but join in.

Do not let his younger years

Be spent wondering

What joy sounds like.

For better posture,

Play dress up on occasion, and dress for you--

Not for fashion week.

Wear your confidence like you where your bra:

Make sure it fits and holds you up,

But let it pass unnoticed by the people you meet on the street

Who are led to believe

It is natural.

And instead of jogging on a coldly calculating treadmill,

Take a walk down Madison with your husband.

Don't forget what you've learned so far--

Realize you are not alone in this world.

There are other stories being intertwined with yours.

Walk with purpose,

Not impatience.

Remember you have already got to where you are going

Just by standing

At his side.

And to exercise the rest of your lower body,

Well,

You know what to do after that walk.

For elegant hands,

Practice hearty handshakes.

For healthy feet,

Use them to go to the places you actually want to go.

For fuller lips,

Smile every morning before you leave your home.

And for younger skin,

Let your husband leave his kisses along your

Neck and your shoulders and your elbows and your hands.

Let the vibrancy of his affection serve as the blush for your cheeks.

And if you yet need radiance,

Remember,

You are loved.

{ Anything at All }

Is there anything I wouldn't do for you?

He asked--

He interjected--

As the tears dripped from my lashes and filled the creases in my face.

Is there anything I wouldn't give you?

His words filled my ears with the roaring of lions,

With the magnitude of ocean waves colliding against the salt-sprayed rocks of a misty coast.

Anything at all?

And again my senses were overwhelmed with the beating of my heart against my ribcage--

Harder, as the deafening noise of his voice struck my ear drums once, twice,

Three times I heard the question.

Then again--

Is there anything I wouldn't do for you?

No,

Came my breathless reply.

I don't believe there is.

My mouth is parched,

Trying to articulate,

Trying to formulate,

Trying to make myself understood

For the first time--

Tears still clinging to silver-lined lashes,

Still clutching the lines in my face,

Still oozing down my pale cheeks in an attempt to make known

The thoughts bleeding out of my head.

Anything at all?

No! No, there isn't.

I understand.

But my tongue is caged behind my teeth.

I cannot answer, and so I am silent--

On the outside,

Shrieking--

On the inside,

Trapped--

Within my body,

Longing--

For release.

I heard you.

You would do anything for me.

But my heart refuses to let such information penetrate its guarded walls.

I can't handle the knowledge that I didn't earn it--

Cannot lose it--

Unable to deserve it--

That kind of love.

Yet every fiber of my being wants to work for it and prove I am enough.

Is there anything I wouldn't do for you?

No, there's not! I get it.

I heard you the first time

And the second time

And the third time.

I heard you when you knelt by my side and cradled me in your arms,

Heard it when you whispered in my ear and comforted me with promises I knew

Would not be broken.

The forth time

And the fifth time,

I heard you when you held my hand in yours and led me away from the explosions,

Let me away from the land mines that had been planted in my bedroom

And my hallways

And my sidewalks.

I heard you.

But I cannot hear you.

Anything at all?

Stop saying that! God, I'm tired of hearing it.

I don't want to hear it.

I don't want anything,

And I don't want everything

I--

I don't know what I want--

What I want at all.

I'm just so tired of the ache that fills every crevice of my chest when I'm not near you,

Can't handle the gnawing acid of my own depravity,

Sick of waiting on my own two hands to change the makings of my soul.

Is there anything I wouldn't do for you?

I heard you. I heard you. I heard you. I heard you. I heard you.

But now I've found a voice to answer.

And before I can stop them, the words slip past my lips--

Would you break me down until there is nothing left of me?

Would you burn the pieces of my heart that have infected my soul?

I try to stop my reckless words, but they gush over my tongue and saturate the air--

Break me. Break me. Break me.

I need you to crack the bones in my body--

That's what I want.

Let me fall to the ground and smell the soothing scent of soil against my scarred and weathered cheeks,

Feel the moist earth next to my cracked and bleeding skin,

The harsh gravel cutting into my side.

Take my limbs and make them submit.

Would you do that for me?

Anything at all?

But then would you make me whole again?

After you've broken me, would you--

Would you stitch up those gashes and force those joints back in their sockets and repair my fragmented limbs?

Would you pick me up and hold me on your lap so I can see what you see and feel what you feel?

Would you let me lay my head against your chest and listen to the thumping of your heart against your ribcage?

Is there, he said,

Anything I wouldn't do for you?

No.

I don't think there is.

Anything at all?

No.

You've given me more than enough.

Anything at all?

No.

You're more than I could ever deserve.

Anything at all?

He said.

And then I said nothing.

I said nothing.

I said

Nothing.

But now

I hear him.

{ 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.