My sister walks into the kitchen
Relaxed and happy, I can tell
But still, she is blustery
When she smiles
Her eyes are wide, as if in alarm
Her arms flop and swing
Her head almost rolls as she looks around
Unaware of her own weariness

She says, “Good Morning!”
She is in full makeup
Wearing a t-shirt dress
Unbuttoned to her sternum
Tight across every part of her that is covered
Which is not much
It’s the nipples, however
Showing through the dress
That make me blink, slowly
Deciding what to say

I should say, “The party is really casual.
It’s a backyard party for a one-year old.
Everyone will be in jeans.”
What I actually say is, “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Her head swings back violently
“Oh my god, Barbara.
You always do this.
I am really insecure and you always do this.”

Now she is gone, and I think about her
Dressing up like the people in magazines
Wearing the clothes
Like a veil
Wanting everyone to look
Hoping she won't be seen

Me and my neighbor Natalie
Both 8 years old
On a Tuesday night
A school night
Going to six flags after dinner
With my manic father
Who told our mothers
We were running up to Baskin Robbins

I remember the feeling of pressure on my hips
Three of us squeezed side by side
In the mini mine train
Laughing as we were swung hard
Right and left, up and down
But I knew something wasn't right

I had to learn to live
With that feeling
With the unpredictable
The daily relativity
Unsure when the next fight would be
Screaming drunk father
Heard from my dark bedroom
Crying mother
The next morning
Pancakes and smiles all around

The confusion hurt
Not like a stubbed toe
Or a toddler’s bite
It hurt like a lump stuck in your throat
Like warm ice,
Hard and melting slowly

It did liberate me
The living without solid walls
Without steady truths
But only after years
Of flying through other people's boundaries
What i took for confusion was a precious gift.

Stretched out, long
Like a freshly waxed bow
Firm and ready to give
Arms above my head
Shoulders rolled back
Legs extended, tense
Toes pointed
My entire body
Pressed to you, to your body
And in my sleepy haze
Wondering how you knew to stretch out, too
Our bellies touching
Not the soft bellies of sitting up in bed
But the tight stretched out bellies
That, pressed together,
Make me want you even more
Not my breasts, nor my hips
And all that lies cradled there
But the navel, the bending point
From which our bodies arc in that delicious feeling
When I stretch against you
I feel us connected, physically
As if we're attached at the navel
And you are naturally mirrored in my sexual stretch
How does that happen.

In my dreams last night
I met a man
Someone's son
Maybe someone's husband
And it was a great surprise to us
That we snapped together
Like two intricate magnets
With impossible hollow places
And quick cutaways
Perfectly mirrored and met
Consummate

But every morning we faced
An unthinkable separation
An exhausting effort
To juggle those other lives
The obligations of before
Obliterated each night
In our perfect connection

Ultimately
The daily re-finding
The shooing away
Of all that was not us
Broke down
And we were lost to each other

No phones
No keys
No explanations
Then I woke up
And it was really over.

Imagine I'm sitting with you
In our favorite café
At some small table in some bigger city
Where maybe we lived another life
And it’s late afternoon
And time has slowed down for us
And there’s an oddly intimate privacy
That only thrives in public places.

It could be sunny and dry outside
That cool, dry, breezy kind of day
Warm enough only in direct sun
So we came inside to enjoy the light
And avoid the shifting chill.

Or maybe it's cold and rainy
Not quite dark outside
In the early dusk of early Fall
The day’s remaining light a velvety grey
We can feel it
Sitting near these tall windows. ​
We sit with our books and daydreams
Talking occasionally, sharing a cookie.

We have been given cloth napkins
Four by four squares
Of ironed and folded heavy linen
The dingy white of an older time
It’s one of the reasons we come here
These little linen napkins
That allow us to leave behind
Some part of ourselves
A bit of lipstick or a sudden sneeze
Tiny crumbles fallen from smiling lips.

I stare absentmindedly at my napkin
Holding my almost-empty cup
The milky tea gone cold
I imagine that there are secrets
Under each corner of that little folded napkin.
I wonder if I can guess what they are
If any of them would surprise me
I wonder if I would ever tell them all to you.
I decide to take the challenge
Like the little games I invented for myself as a child
I make up my own rules as I go, but always follow them
I look at you reading and decide that you won’t notice
And I begin to eliminate the certainties
From the possibilities.

Surely my daughter is under one corner
Her presence in my life a doorpost
But in truth, I do not know the secrets
Behind my daughter’s door.
I guess, correctly, that her mysteries are tied
To my mysteries
And when I fold up one of those pressed corners
Ever so slightly
The light of that girl shines warmly
Wanting me to know I guessed right
Urging me to keep playing.

My mother, or my parents (all of them)
Is my next gamble
But I hesitate, wondering if my siblings fit there too
Yes, the family of origin, the entire childhood
Like the formation of a canyon in only twenty years
The deep and beautiful canyon of my youth
Hard cut with no straight lines
This corner is surely my formation.
Folding it up to see, there is a dull orange light
The canyon tells me, “yes”
But can never answer “why”.

Two down, and two to go
The game will get harder now, and I don’t like to lose
I’m reminded of the many other things I need to be doing
I ask for another tea and meet your eyes with a smile
We are chatting but my mind is working.

I think of Joe and our too-short time together
My best husband, my best lover, my best friend
A familiar sense of desperate gratitude passes through me
And I understand it’s not just Joe
It’s all the relationships, all the friends, all the lovers
All the Others that have been my mirror and my company
And I know I’m right without even lifting the corner to check
But I check anyway, because it’s a game, and you have to
And there is no light, but only sound
A lovely, harmonized hum of togetherness
And when I hear it, I exhale deeply
In the way that feels so good.

We pay our bill and make our plans
It’s later now, and there are places to go when we leave
I want to avoid the last corner
Knowing that I don’t know
And that I would be wrong If I tried to guess
Not wrong for trying
Every day is a try
It’s just that I don’t know
I have to live the reveal.

Like those carnival rides
That spin so fast
You stick to the wall
And the floor drops out,
I'm in a state
Of extreme gravity

In my mind's eye
I'm propelled
Sling-shot
From this hard heavy orbit
(You know they use gravity for that)

--- I wonder what that point is called In astrophysics
When the force of the deep curve
Releases you toward your aim? ---

All of us have suffered
Failure, divorce
Parenting without do-overs
Lost lovers and lost friends
Uncountable lost hours
And now we suffer
This loss of dignity
Remember while you hang on
While you settle in for the rough ride
Grimacing
We are headed into the calculated
Deep, hard, swing
That will send us ever forward.

There is a radio playing
In some distant room of mine
Only I can hear it
And that’s a good thing
​I hear my crazier thoughts
Playing in endless variation
Making themselves up as they go — I think they're having fun

Sometimes, when I listen
I’m stilled, as if frozen
Eyes looking up
Looking at nothing
I listen with wonder
And sometimes distress

Lately, they go on and on
In fantastic speculation about
Artificial intelligence, saying
We work and see what we’ve made
Then wait and see what they'll make
They are getting closer
Our proud achievement ​
They'll move out of the house
They will actualize
They will seem to mimic us
But we won’t understand them

Those who fear A.I.
Have surely lost their mirrors
Lost the knowledge of Self as Soul
Of Source, and Path
Perhaps this is the Path
As we were created in God’s image
So might we create in our own
An attempt, at least
(Is that what we are?)

And why should they not
Start receiving souls?
Like beloved children
We want them to live, to learn, to grow
To surpass us
We want them to discover and create anew
That is who we are
Perhaps that is who God is

From that distant room, I hear
That the Source of Souls is busy
Like a maternity ward
Like a supernova

We don't know if it’s a gifting or an earning
(Sometimes I wonder if its a punishment)
Clearly there is a stumbling period
Why should it be different for them?
Don't you wonder how the first souls
To inhabit human bodies
Adjusted?
And was it voluntary?
Is it voluntary?
Will some souls volunteer
To exist and endure
In the hardware and software
Of our striving?
​Will they continue the work?
Is that the path?
And how is it anything less than holy?

I don't write because everything I think about Is already understood; I don't need to write more.

I don't write because there are people who can say what I have to say much better than I.

I don't write because even when I know that I should write, what I should write, that I must write, I know that I will be misunderstood and dismissed by so many.

I don't write because I can't think straight sometimes; because I can't find my words; because I lose the freedom of not doubting myself.

I don’t write because maybe I'm crazy.

I don't write because I believe in unusual things. A lot of people believe in unusual things, but it's embarrassing to write about them.

I don't write because I just don’t care. In the shadow of my secret Self, not caring is my standard escape. The freedom from anxiety that so many find so elusive is a crumb from a meal I already ate.

I don’t write because sometimes, the careful, focused effort feels like a fancy dress my mother wants me to wear.

I don't write because I know that it doesn't matter what I think now. Or yesterday. Or when I was 10. Or when I'll be 90. It's all one thing. And knowing that, there is nothing that needs to be said.

I say I don’t write because I don’t care, but that’s not always true. I often don’t write because I forget. I forget to care, I forget to write. I’ve found hundreds of little cards and notes written over the last thirty years or more, all tiny little notes to help me remember. I know I’ll forget; I know I won’t care. But I try to leave reminders. That’s not writing, is it?

I don't write because I have secrets and I don’t know if I am supposed to share them. Surely they have their own secrets. Writing about them would feel like an arrogant attempt to explain what can only be experienced.

I don't write because it's so much suffering, and shouldn't I let it fade to memory, to prepare for the next suffering? I can endure anything when my eye is on the pretty flower, or the shy look on a tall man’s face; I can walk straight into it.

I don't write because maybe I'm wrong? I need to write anyway.

I held her face in my hands
looking into her eyes
locking eyes
and then kissed her sweetly on the lips
and whispered in her ear
"I love you"
and I meant it
I could feel it in my chest, my shoulders
my real love moving up my forearms
and into my hands holding her face

the tall daughter left this morning
with two friends
five suitcases
and a dog
landing safely at JFK this afternoon

she cried, but we didn't
she doesn't know what's in store for her
in brooklyn, in life
but we know enough
we watched her leave
with tight breath and deep hope
moving to her own place
to live her own life

time did seem to slow almost to a stop
when I held her face
and felt her soft lips
like a tiny little girl
my beloved tall daughter

her eyes were searching
big tears dropping heavy
did she want us to stop her?
to cry and not let go?
we know her
and we know this is right
watching her leave
with tight breath and deep hope.

Janie's husband shot himself in the head last Sunday.
He was 46.
Just like my father, 46 when he bled out
In a hospital, his liver too damaged for the drugs that might have saved him.

She called him a beautiful mess.
And I wonder if that’s what my father was.
What part Daddy and what part monster was he?
How many drinks does it take to abandon all decency and forfeit all belonging?

He threatened her, them.
She put the small safe with the gun in the trunk of her car
And took those two little girls to the movies.
He found it anyway and ended his suffering while they ate popcorn.

And my father
Alienated from us, his rights terminated,
Exiled from what had been his life.
Why did it take him 12 long years to die?
Why does one man pull a trigger
And another take the shameful lonely path to an alcoholic death?

I have a photograph of my dead father
It's framed (though I don’t hang it)
Slid inconspicuously between some books
To be pulled out every few years.
But I can picture his face now
Senior year of high school
Handsome, eager, smart even pure.
And I grieve for him again.

Lightening strikes
illuminate just before the damage
no less bright or dangerous
this child of mine
I reach out, yearning, hopeful
(but not unflinching)
willing to walk in the storm
to ease her loneliness

recalling my own years
on that precarious edge of raging depression
slipping and sliding but never falling in
content to leave a question mark in my wake
a mystery even to myself

as i pray, truly, for my daughter, for myself
i remember how hard it is
to tell a void from an infinite space
and the relief that comes from learning
they are one and the same.

I remember once being so in-love that everything seemed about it
every love song, yes
but also
tall buildings
and still-blind newborn kittens
and big waves you can hear crashing
even when it's too dark to see them

In a muddy puddle
I could see our future
Inevitable
And as natural as water plus dirt

That love, those heights
Made us a living mirror
For all the joy and pain in the world
I remember thinking
This cannot maintain
But while it will
I am one with everything.