En:dure

Your flight leaves at 7 a.m., he says. I couldn't figure out how to add a bag. You take a deep breath, run through the annoyances you needn't say and ignore the news that tell you security lines are beyond the pale. What is reality, when there is starlight and happenstance out there? When there is whimsy and surprise? 

You speak clearly into the room that you haven't an outlet, stand impatient in the midst of your shortcoming and haven't yet reached the problem-solving stage when he fixes it for you. Just like that. Sometimes you think being seen is the greatest gift we can give each other. She runs into the bar to for an encouraging hug, before it's time to go home and tell the children. We do not use words like stages, like prognosis, like five-year-survival rate, but they sit at the back of your throat like a vise regardless. There's a weight in your belly that you do not think you can get rid of now, in my dreams I take care of babies and puppies but fall down steep cliffs, the symbolism hits you over the head, she writes from across the Atlantic to say she is bed ridden and can't remember how to breathe. 

We are on our last legs, March. We are doing what we can, but we are at the end of our carefully tied strings, please. Give us one foothold at the edge of this cliff, please, give us one solid push onto dry land. 

The heart breaks and breaks 
and breaks and breaks and

one day surely 
you'll come out alive. 

 

Strike

We're back on the picket lines tomorrow at nine, he says, closing his bar tab, so this is the only drink I'm allowed today. The bartender sticks a lime in it, grumbles at the service, rolls her eyes in your direction as another group comes in. Mondays were not meant for working, she seems to say, as she makes another batch of negronis. 

You make eyes at the striking barfly, wonder what else he could tell you if given the time, wonder what else you could teach him under union rules. He waxes on about negotiations and there's a glimmer in his eyes that you think could be better spent elsewhere, you are no good to anyone in this March gloom, useless before spring bursts into your fingertips, you do not remember how to bring a person home (metaphorically). You wish him luck, turn back to the bartender, commiserate over the weight of the world. 

Once spring bursts into my fingertips, 
you whisper to yourself, 
once life returns to these frozen rivers in my veins,
I will show you a match, 

I will show you a strike 
to start a
fire. 

Snaps

Descend the stairs to an East Village basement, leave the spring air behind – reluctant – greet new faces like old friends, you're not sure you put your own face on right, or chose the right one for the occasion. That's the problem with masks, you have to know which one you're wearing. Snaps for the readers though you didn't feel their heartbeat, you wonder in amazement at these groups of writers who want to venture into the world, who want to see their audience react to their turns of phrase. You only ever wanted to be alone with words, community sullies the fantasy you think. This is not the moment to air such a grievance. 

Later, on Second Avenue, gentle spring rain on warm concrete sidewalk, little glimpses of poetry remind themselves to me I have

sunk so many years into these streets allowed
so much love to fill the cracks in the side walk I am
not sorry

Because when I stumble these streets now
the magic we built together is what
lifts me up and

carries me home. 

Hum

Sunset over the Manhattan skyline, you sit in a 21st-floor office and watch the golden light illuminate the skyscrapers. Remember a Port Authority office where you got no work done for all the staring across rooftops you did. It's been too long. Here is my city. This is what you came for, this is the lifeblood that beats inside you, steady, joyous. 

You stand on the subway platform feeling alive, it pulses through you, sets the misaligned boulders straight, how simple everything when the answers are right. You knew that. You had only forgotten. We are not as broken as we think.

It's only, 
life gets in the way
of living.  

The Patience

You wake in a sweat, the radiators tripping over themselves to be useful, you wish you felt the same. Instead, the heat drags you through a daze in the morning, the outside freeze like a cruel reminder you have no power. They say the crocus is in bloom in the botanical gardens but you cannot feel in your chest what you have not seen with your own eyes, this is the problem with hope, it needs something to hold on to. 

But then, so do you. 

It occurs to you that perhaps you are not yet out of the woods, that you are hanging on by that final thread before the path turns and the trees clear. Perhaps this doesn't mean redemption didn't come for you, only that you expected it too soon. Expected it with the early morning dawn and hints of green buds in the tree pits. 

You were always impatient for a resolution. Just wait a little longer. Hope is the thing with its feet firmly on the ground.  

Leaves Turned

Bright March sun after days of gloom is like a shot of adrenaline to your system, even as the winds from the sea run icy cold. You lap it up like you've been starving a lifetime, and perhaps you have. It's a simple joy, every year, and in an age where both simple and joy are hard to come by, it's fine to just take it. 

You know there'll come a time, soon, soon, when all you will want is to run. You know what May will grab you like a whirlwind and dance you into dawn, but in this brief moment, in this threshold month of March, you deliberate, question yourself. Is it possible the answer to do exactly the opposite of what you've done all these decades? Is it possible you could have everything you dreamed of if you only stayed put? 

The thing is, May will come, as it always does. 

And you'll never get the answer.  

Mondays

It rains and rains, but the air is warm, the bar is warmer still. Something about a living room outside your house, something about a place you've earned by building yourself into its foundation. Good things take time, this was always the way. You're too impatient, you're too unchained, you refuse to be relied upon but then here you are, longing for someone to rely on, looking for a soft place to land. You cannot have both. 

Twenty years you've given this city and you still act like you're still considering your options. Twenty years it's been the love of your life and you still panic at the idea of putting down your furniture. It's not an attractive feature, you know it. How shiny it looks from the outside. But how flighty up close, they retract their hands to keep from burning at your flame. 

I just thought we could build the roots in motion. 
Thought time could be what happened while you
were living.