Errands

Morning, at the store where they laugh in Chinese,
then back to an hour of TV aerobics when
you call to say hello and ask me to a formal dinner.
I want to buy you a leather scarf
the kind Sajik sells on Greenbriar St.
So out my apartment door, down the stairwell
where Mrs. Naser is beating her prayer rugs;
a quick, but friendly good afternoon. And
boys, boys, boys crowd the pavement. They’re
all grown- up now, but still with names I used to love—
Doing school work while my visiting great aunt
painted her Italian toes and hummed her only English
to a Connie Francis record as I yellow markered
across my algebra binder
8th grade: P-H-I-L-L-I-P. 9th : M- I-C-H-A-E-L.
Ten year later, you— a black tie banker.
Placing your face in the windows of
cars driving by discount chains that sell watches.
You’re always falling in love my sister would say—
The way I broke down in outdoor coffee shop terraces
along Fairfax’s brick and silver office buildings.
It must have been the elevator muzak reflecting
customers’ dialogue or vice versa. Now,
in the rain, the Edmonds, old friends of my parents,
slide up and offer to share an umbrella.
They want to play catch up. Perhaps
a watch might be more fitting than a scarf.

With Routine

Then the lust had gone from the room and there
was no need to roll away the curtain’s drab green
and see what color the earth had woke itself into.
Outside: the wailing or chit chat of an Indian family
who lost an old aunt. The uncle is visiting
from New Jersey. And has the neighborhood
given much thought to how the early rush hour
will look without his morning walk?
His silk man-gown and bare footsteps tracing
the curb from the bird bath yard to the video rental store.
All night the wind had struggled, as if trying to breathe beside
the sparse traffic and Amtrak’s last calls. I have grown
to hate that sound; that unexpected thrill of distance.

Have This

The first Christmas my sister was allowed to share the sofa bed
with her boyfriend, we found his strong body asleep over hers.
And it was then I knew no one would ever love me.
That I would be on a train back to the mission home,
where I changed the diapers of a Chinese woman who
sat in a highchair all day with a rattle. Her adoptive parents
were pastors in Memphis. It was on the 7:00 news:
Molested Retarded Girl Found Locked In Closet. And when
I was turned on by the way another volunteer’s hands moved
as he shucked the corn, I had to excuse myself to the bathroom—
look out the window, judge the world for its trendy hipster jeans,
fancy coffee shops, and for simply wanting to be beautiful
that snowy evening we could not all be in the same room.

Everything

My hands was the first thought– what to cut off
in this hurt the most dare.While outside my bedroom:
the rescue squad’s Are you– Are you– ?
No I’m not hurt, went the construction worker who all morning
told the neighborhood hello with his high pitched Tell your mofo she a ho—
over the boom box, over Pakistani women beating rugs
to town home rails and trading fruit from the Falls Church
Farmer’s Market. It’s Saturday and I hear their weekly stories:
the sister in Detroit,whose husband lost his job and now
because of the pregnancy she will quit the daycare.
A we cannot plan for such things, but God always helps.
I tell you all about this walking Seven Corners’ brick shops,
which is why I can’t lose my hands. How else could I
have waved you to me from that Chinese Dragon parade?
How would you take them when I say, I’m falling in love with the world:
her thread’s unweaving of sorrow and joy? When I don’t want your:
No. You’ve been sad for a long time. But again you do this
as I adore trees moving in fast motion out our metro window.
Lights going off briefly so we’re only scared afterwards,
after the sun is back to show this plush green.

So You Know

Even in the DMV lines I am thinking of you.
Just there yesterday, a mother pulled out her breast
for the baby to suck. As she hushed Hungarian lullabies
over number calls: 7 f, g,&, d, I thought of you
as a child. How you might have liked to be rocked then.
Though this was only hours after I again made that vow:
I will not obsess. Oh God I will not
obsess each time something good comes.

And yes, I admit it was me who all last night
called up to your bedroom window:
You’ll see, you’ll see I can be quite a lovely thing.
But truly this was out of character. Mostly with you
I have no wish to talk about myself. To tell of the time
I overdosed in the county rec center restroom. How
the certified pool aide pumped out the drugs
just in time for me to make it downtown
to teach at Saint Anthony’s Sunday School for the Blind.
This is not out of shame. Nor is it some sort of hiding scheme.
Only, that when we sit on this strip mall bench taking in
the Saturday smells (salon hair spray, sub deli beef)—
I much prefer to hear what you have to say.