There was something about him;
Raw, sexy, fecund
He made me want something more than comfort
More than some sweatless union in clean sheets

Something with hair and sweat and spittle
Something unaware of its own filth
Unblushing , indulgent and sweet

I make my lips a perfect ring
And suck in the smell of him
A combination not unlike
Dirt, pepper and milk
Touch him with motions less economical
Languid, meandering paths on his back
Somewhere between kissing and talking
We rest for a moment
Nose to nose
Take drags from the same tiny cloud of air
His body flinches
It’s electric eel jerk
And now I know he is really asleep
Which leaves me
The opportunity
To revel in the gesture of
Full-body touch
As metaphor
Which I do with relish



When I first wake,
If there’s any light at all in the room
My eyes play tricks on me
Grab on to any shapes and charge them with some kind of life
Sometimes as menacing as
The iron board draped with hoody becomes tall man in trench coat
Sometimes as innocuous as:
Wad of sneezed in toilet paper becomes
Frozen white cat
But, sometimes as lovely and chilling as
The rolled, white edge of the down blanket
Becomes your hand on my chest
None of these transformations were my idea
I didn’t conjure any of these visions
Or force them into place
They just appeared as pieces of a whole
And perhaps, in less than vivid light
In a less than lucid state
There’s a moment when all the things are real

Just as Schrödinger’s cat
Is both alive and dead in its box
So too are you
And gone



I drove out to my best friend’s house in the country last night
To visit what I like to call her “fresh” baby
I came in sweating, as I do, because there’s a particularly good trail nearby
Which I usually stop to run on my way
It’s my habit to storm through the house, kiss everyone without touching
Like a person just come home from a long shift in the ER
“Don’t hug me, I smell like BM”
I’ll spend the next five minutes in the shower
Tracing out all the places I’ve been on the shower curtain map of the world
I can smell
Brigit’s fever-inducing pot of Indian food stewing in the crock pot
I step into the kitchen,
Clean and hungry
And she pours me a beer
Confesses something
While patting the baby, invisible to me,
Who is wrapped several times over
In one of those wildly patterned hippy slings
And slung tightly right in front of Brigit’s belly button
A return to the garden from where she was plucked
Now, the outside looking in

“When she was growing inside me, I felt like I knew her so well
Because I loved her so much
But it’s funny… when she finally arrived,
They put her face down, on my chest,
And when I pulled her away to see her face…”
She stopped, stirred the crockpot and shrugged off some unseen, unwanted touch
“I don’t know.” She said. “I just thought
I would recognize her”
There was nothing I could say
I came around her
And smiled while I put my hand under the weight
Of the baby in her hammock

I’ve looked, some time now
for love
And I’m not sure if it’s hidden from me or if I have overlooked it plain sight
But, somehow, it’s missing from my life

Tonight, I get ready for a blind date
Do all the silly things I would never normally before a night with friends:
Paint my nails candy red, wear perfume and black underwear, put mascara on my bottom lashes, lint roll my pea coat
I sit at the Rossi alone, and order a glass of red wine
He has not arrived yet and that is just fine
Because at 32, I have absolutely no problem drinking alone
As soon as I put it to my lips, he walks in
Sits down in a hurry, visibly nervous
And for a moment he is tangled in his plaid scarf and jacket
When he is free he sees that I am
He is not handsome, nor particularly ugly, but has an earnest smile
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Nothing, it’s just, I thought I would recognize you”