Goblin Market

Last night I dreamt
That we walked in the sunlight
And you began to run
And you led me to your car
And I asked
"Where are we going?"
And you didn't answer, so we drove.
And we drove, and drove.
Until we reached a market:
"The Fabulous Farmer's Market"
Full of ripe, strange fruits
Big purple eggplants with swirls of white
Full, neon green peppers
Apple sauce with a sprig of mint
And mashed pears with honeycomb
It was the best place we could have ever thought of
You turned to me and put your arm around my shoulders
And grinned.
And I said, "Should I get the apple sauce, or the pears?"
And you thought about it.
And you said, "How about both?"
And you kissed me.
And the sun washed in from the window in our bedroom,
Taking the eggplants, and peppers,
The apple sauce and pears—
but not you.

9/11

I've read so many blog-posts trying to sum up the day in numbers. In concepts. In emotionally charged adjectives. But I cannot take that single day into my hands and root out the profound moment where my life changed forever. To be honest, the strongest desire I felt on September 11, 2001 was for the day to be over. As I realized what happened and as more information came in and as things began to sink in as far as they could in my 10-year-old brain, I desperately just wanted the day finish. I wanted to wake up to a new day and at least know where the world stood. 

Because there was life before, the life that I knew from July 3, 1991 to September 10, 2001. And then there was the world after. And I could accept that things would be different. And worse, maybe. But what I hated more than anything—more than watching my parents cry, more than worrying about planes overhead, more than trying to make it all real—was this horrible, unstable Limbo that was that day. 

And when it finally was over, when I woke up on September 12—my mother's 53rd birthday, although we did not celebrate it that year—things were different. Things were rawer. And they were ugly. And I know that people want to move forward from that. The only memories they want to draw upon are those of the country coming together out of the ashes. But I will never forget the week that followed the 11th.

It was a few days after the attacks. It was all anyone talked about. But we were still going to school; some things had to stay the same. I was at lunch, sitting next to my friend Nabiha, who is Pakistani. She offered me some Pakistani candy. I took it because it looked good and because my friend had offered it to me. As I unwrapped it, another girl sitting at our table—Rebekah—wrinkled her nose at me.

"Are you going to eat that?" she asked

"Yes?" I replied, questioningly.

"Are you sure you should...I mean...because, it's like...Arab. Is it safe?"

I was so embarrassed.

I was so embarrassed.

I was so fucking embarrassed and I was so fucking sad. 

I could feel Nabiha sinking a little next to me, ashamed. I paused, a mili-second.

"What?" I said. "Of course I'm going to eat it. Why would you even say that?"

Rebekah looked at me unapologetically. I knew why she said it. I ate the candy and tried to console Nabiha. 

And here it was. In this moment. The suspicion and fear and anger and hate. It had already trickled down to fifth graders. People can talk about the Patriot Act, or the reports of anti-Muslim sentiment and hate crimes, or even about the horrific act itself but for me, that was it. That was the destruction. That was what 9/11 had done. It had taken us and turned us in on ourselves. And it was so easy.

Today is the 10th anniversary of the attacks on the Twin Towers in New York City. This number is important to us because we like to measure history in neat quantities. But it is not the years or the decades that pass, but rather the days and the hours and the minutes that we should watch for. The unconstructed moments that reveal much more about our insides than an anniversary memorial service, or a 12 minute remembrance segment on the nightly news, or the reflective blog post or Facebook status.

I remembered that moment at the lunch table one year ago today. And I will remember it one year from now. And probably for the rest of my life. 

reasoning

Because it's almost September of a new year and I miss the September from two years ago. Because you still smell like you. Because I looked at your bed and fought the urge to jump into it and wrap myself in the blankets that touched your body last night. Because everything here is mine and yours. Because I am very scared. Because I cried. Because there are so many things to do and I have not done them yet. Because there is a coffee mug on the table that says "MAUNA KEA OBSERVATORIES CLEARLY THE BEST HAWAI'I." Because I am tired. Because I am full. Because I should be doing laundry. Because you are everything I want.  Because I want to look up and watch someone walk through the door. Because...because I am sitting here looking at the dark green shadows the trees are making against the night sky and I am alone. Those are all of the reasons I am writing this and more.

that girl

She was so pretty, in the way that girls who like to laugh are. Happy girls—you know. She made him feel so good when she laughed, like he had done something right to make her smile like that.

She knew, even now, that he still had this thing. For her. After all this time. Just a small thing, almost harmless. But she knew, in the way that girls do, and she danced with it a little, while they sat at that small little Mexican restaurant up on Harlem. It wasn’t mean of her to do it, because nothing real would happen. And everyone at the table knew it too—so it was okay. But he was still hurt, hurt that she'd never wanted him the way he'd wanted—wants— her, not really, never the way he wanted—wants— her.

And maybe no one else could really have him. Not with this small part of himself that he'd saved for her, a meek little candle burning bravely; a wartime wife. And despite all his best efforts, he found that he still thought about her late at night, or when he was having sex with other girls. And he didn't want to do that because it was the slightest bit painful, like cold water hitting a sore tooth. Like picking at a scab.

He wanted that small part of himself back. She owed him that. But he couldn't find it when he looked at her. All that was there was her sweet, sweet laugh that didn't quite seem like it could come out of her. Maybe he would let her keep him.

teeth and bone

The collegiate poets want it to be beautiful. They want the sunshine streaming through the blinds, or the delicate pitter-patter of that sweet, sweet rain. The flushed cheeks and the big eyes. The lazy laying in the aftermath of it all. The turning over, the talking, the not talking, the feeling, the love. And they use their pretty metaphors. And their sentences run on and on with their euphoria. And they want it all to fit neatly inside the stretch of one arm in a graceful, exhaustive arch; a movement you don’t even think about, supreme and lovely satisfaction.

That’s how the collegiate poets talk about it, in roundabout ways that make you smile fondly. That make you feel warm, make you feel like you could really be making love: not just fucking, but feeling something in that little soul of yours. And you want all of that. You want it so badly to be the sunlight, the pitter-patter, the late daylight where everything is safe and exciting at once. Because if it can be that beautiful, then maybe you are beautiful too.

The collegiate poets don’t like those mean words, the one that don’t describe bodies as soft and gentle and perfect-puzzle-piece. The raw ones, the ones that we read online when we were twelve, and we didn’t know what they meant but we knew they were something because we felt them inside of us. Gnawing at us. Determined to come out of us. And suddenly it’s no longer a happy cry of joy or a quiet laugh, but a scream, a moan, a guttural growl. And it’s full of sweat and scratches and blood and nasty, nasty compulsions— the teeming underbelly of that fragile poem has suddenly taken over like a demon. And you are not beautiful. You are not lovely. You are not lazy. You are desperate and you need it and you want it and you have never been so close to the border between Heaven and Hell in your whole god damned life.  

The collegiate poets want their soft sheet, their sweet love in the afternoon. It is the only thing that separates us from the animals. But their prose is weak, without teeth and bone. And without teeth and bone, we are nothing to those who come years after us, excavating the remains of our houses and trying to know us. 

O America, when you and I were young

America is special. America is beautiful. We make fireworks. They are pretty. They are red and blue and green. They are loud. We like to be loud. We have a flag. It has stars and stripes. We have songs about America. They are nice songs. We learn them in school. We learn a lot in school. I know we came here on a boat. We shared dinner with the Indians. We were nice to them. We gave them land out West to live on. Some of them died. We learn about George Washington. He was brave. We like brave people. We learn about the Constitution. It is long. The Constitution says that we can say whatever we want to say. That means I can say nigger. Yes it does. Yes, it does. We learn about slavery. It was bad. We learn about Abraham Lincoln. He was honest and nice. He freed the slaves and everyone loved him. We learn about Reconstruction. I don’t really remember that lesson. We learn about the Civil Rights movement. There were white people in the Civil Rights movement too. Everyone got along afterwards. We learn about war. We are the best at war. We have guns and they don’t. We learn about Hiroshima. That was bad but we had to do it. We always defend ourselves because we are the best. Sometimes we drop bombs on bad people who speak different than us. It is because they are mean to us. They are jealous. We are a melting pot. People came to Ellis Island. We have many nationalities and that makes us special. To be special you have to be a citizen. We don’t like people who are not citizens. They are not special like us. We learn about border control.

We learn about other things but I am too tired now. We watch T.V. We know that Americans have families and a backyard and a grill and a dog. That is why we are special. China is not special like us. We make t-shirts. They say “I Love The U.S.A” We ask God to bless America. He will do it because we are special. We are his special children. Everybody knows that. We are rich. It is nice. It is what makes us special. We can buy things like guns and medicine and oil. Those are things we need. Some people are poor. It is because they are not American. If everyone lived here they would be happy.

America is special. It is better than everyone else. If you don’t believe me, I will show you my gun. It is big. It is special. It is better than you. It is beautiful like America. 

you give me the most gorgeous sleep

Sleeping next to someone is the one of the most intimate things in the world. More intimate than having sex, or eating a meal, or crying, or confessing. When we sleep, we let our brains leave the tightly constructed grids we've created to control our deepest inclinations. When we sleep, secrets spill out of our skin and unconscious thoughts dance across our eyes. We cannot even compose our bodies, make them do what we want them to do. Instead we lay there, sprawled, tossing, slack-jawed, with strange, deep sounds coming from within our lungs. They sound like a car engine. When we sleep, we are vulnerable.

Sleep next to another person. Wake up a minute before them. Watch their eyeballs shift. Watch their chest rise. Watch the little ticks in the minute muscles of their left hand. Watch their mouth open, their teeth click. Watch them in the one state where they cannot control your perception of them. Learn everything and anything there is to know about them. Understand what they fear and what they love and how that looks.

And then watch them wake up. Watch them remember that they are alive and watch them recall that there is a world and a life waiting for them and watch them reconcile the way they felt when they were sleeping with the way they feel now and watch them realize that it's morning and the sun is up and watch them reassemble that grid and watch them turn to you and smile and think to yourself that you were the first person they saw on this day and be happy.

And then tell me that there's something more intimate than that.