duality

"I think maturity is accepting duality, accepting contradiction.
Someone who does terrible things is not a
(she says a word in yiedish here. It sounds like a small explosion)
Do you know what that means? It means, the worst of the worst.
We all have both parts of us,"
says the rebitzen
at "Tea and Torah."
We are sitting around a table at a nice b&b near the beach, a few blocks from my house.
I came once before for the alliteration and free pastries,
but I found myself fed by the torah.

I've heard there are receptors in the brain shaped like chemicals,
so the chemicals fit into the holes in children's blocks,
and create feelings.
Well, I think there is an ancient part of me
designed to recieve torah.

Today, for an hour before I walked in,
I paced the gardens outside,
on the phone with a friend of the man who assaulted me this past summer.
It is hard for me to write assault without filling the rest of the page with caveats--
that thing that felt like assault to me, only to me.
Because that night our experience split in 2,
like a tree struck by lightening,
not just his and mine,
but the part that was only mine split too.
That night, there were many of me,
and one of them was only made of sound.

Right now, I am writing
next to the ocean,
and on the bike ride here, I thought,
assault is a form of communication.
It is a form of speech.
It tells a story.
But what is it saying?

I think it is saying,
I don't believe you exist.
I don't believe there is anything that matters
inside your body,
just a body.
To me, you are only skin.

That is what it said and I believed it,
because my heart flew away.
My insides became a person,
a person without flesh,
a person, who, without flesh,
cannot exist.
and, not-existing,
I went home
I looked for home.

The rebitzen said,
"The ocean always represents torah."
I learned in feminist classes that before judaism,
the ocean meant female power,
darkness,
womb.
And Moses split the ocean in two
And the rebbitzen said,
And Hashem said,
"just go forward. don't even pray."
And I am ocean.
Ocean has no skin.
And I wrote letters.

"I am here to mediate,"
says his friend on the phone.
"I don't want mediation. I was very clear about that in the letter."
"Well, the thing is--he lost the letter," she says. "You know he has a problem with forgetting things."
I do too.

I used to question how it happened, if he meant to hurt me,
but now I'm pretty sure he just forgot me,
forgot to ask if I was okay,
forgot to notice
I am person
(in body.)

And what of the rest?
Have they all forgotten?
Perhaps a poem is not a place for rape statistics,
and maybe you already know them,
so I will just say,
there are too many people split into 2, and into many.
and those people have ghosts without skin,
and those people are my ancestors.
And Hashem said, "just go forward. don't even pray."
And my grandma, we poured in the ocean,
but what of the part of her that was torn from her body,
not just when she was raped,
but when she raped my father?
and where is his
heart?

I think they go into my mouth
when I cry or remember.
I think they are made of sound.
I think there is a part of me designed to recieve them.

And how do I, at the end of the story,
mend bodies that are just ashes in oceans?
I write letters
I send them again, when they are lost.
I go forward.
I don't even pray.

Ralph's Photographs

Joe and Ralph are brothers,
and they inspire me--
what's possible.
It's like for Ralph,
everything is just a lens to focus love through.

Ralph took this photo
of my friend nikki
and the sun was shining through her purple skirt and her hair had flowers in it.
and i would like Ralph to photograph my sadness,
to catch me in a moment when it is in me
and the sun is shining through it
and what color would its skirt be?
and what its hair look like?

Tonight I was talking on the phone, to alex, about my childhood
and i said that if i read my life in a book,
i would cry the whole way through.
and even now, writing that,
i feel i need to justify it,
explain myself
to tell you sad, sad stories,
to write you a whole book that would make you cry the whole way through.

and what's so sad is that as a child
you think you made your sadness up,
like the games you play alone in your room,
and so does everyone else.
and so i feel like i'm still living to prove my sadness is real,
and until i completely believe it exists
and and it has a story to tell
and photographs to take
like a real, live human being,
like a ralph or a joe,
it won't leave me.

today, in the kitchen,
i was cooking and eating mango with my hands
and listening to this american life,
and the story was about a retarded woman,
who watched children's videos over and over,
and when her mother was dying of cancer
she made her a video to remember her by
but after she died,
the woman never watched the video,
and she forgot her mother,
who had taken care of her every day.
i was crying
over the sink
because my hands were dirty
and i didn't want to cry over the floor.
i guess it's good to remember
even small, sad things.

ralph showed me a video, tonight,
about physics,
and an important man being interviewed said the reason nuclear power is so powerful
is because it splits not just an atom,
but the center of an atom,
and if we could get to the center of that,
and the center of that,
the energy would be infinite--
the power at the center of the smallest thing.
i would like to commit this alchemy,
split, into love,
the center of my smallest sadness,
my sadness that is so ashamed it lives in my wisdom tooth,
the one that is aching and buried under my cheek bone,
or the birthmark i noticed tonight,
in the bathtub,
might be beautiful,
just to the right of the center of my chest.
i imagined it in a photagraph,
a portrait of it at that moment--
just my breasts and thighs above the water,
my face half-submerged.

and i thought of water as a surface,
a plane, like in mathematics or physics--
its own universe,
or new ground to walk on.
and it's Easter and Passover all at once,
and i thought of how jesus walked on water
and moses parted water,
split it in the center,
and i wonder how much sadness he found at its center.
and i wonder
if he believed in it.

i am going to write this as if i am sadness, for a moment, ok?
i am ana's little girl sadness.

i am sorry, i am sorry, i am sorry
i didn't mean to
i don't know how this happened
it was an accident
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry
i'm scared i'm scared i'm scared
forgive me forgive me
i didn't mean to
run away from you
i didn't mean to make such a mess
to have knotty hair
to be so dirty
to cry so much
i didn't mean to forget to wear underwear on the swingset in my blue dress in the sun
and spend hours in my room rearranging doll furniture and drawing circles on the floor
it's just that i didn't know what else to do
i didn't mean to be so clumsy
and kiss all my friends
and tell secrets behind the tree
i am afraid of you
and i don't mean to be afraid of you
i find you in colors
i dream sad things
i wish you wouldn't sit so close to me
and say the things you say to me
you come too close to me
you violate me
but i don't have the words to say that
get the fuck away from me
i'm sorry i don't mean to say that
but it's what i want to say
what i don't have the words to say
go away, go away, go away.
i am afraid of you.

Bluebird

I was rambling today to Mark,
my favorite professor,
about how I don't wear dresses anymore.
It's a perfect day outside his office window
the way it's been these past few days
the blue of archetypes and fairytales
the blue that launched a million metaphors
occuring all across eternity
like specks of blue dripped, by jackson pollock, across a timeline that stretches out forever in every direction
the blue of the eyeballs of Disney princesses
with eyelashes that flutter open and closed helplessly.
Snow White and Cinderella would frolick on the lawn today,
butterflies caught in their hands
before they release them,
benevolently,
their red lips bowing like clouds.
the bottoms of their ball gowns would collect grass stains today
befitting a Tide commercial
and the squirrels would crawl up their arms and whisper stories in their ears that would make them giggle and sing and spin in circles, silk sown into the wind.

I wear jeans and baggy sweatshirts
a decision I wish
weren't a decision at all.
I wish I really believed I were born androgynous
like my beautiful friend
who always walks like she's marching in an army of her own making
and doesn't understand the way clothes and colors fit together.
But, goddammit
I like those shoes that look like black lines painted onto cripplingly high-heeled feet
i like the garbage bag dresses
in the photospreads of vogue
with the model whose hair is tangled and spilling in her face
her arms jagged,
like she's not quite human anymore,
a bird
splayed out on a cutting bird
in a gourmet kitchen.
In a day like today she would lie down on the grass and eat the dirt like a malnourished rebellious teenager.
she would point her head down
into her perfect neck
the sinews bent
so thin
so thin.
And if I went up to talk to her, she would only squawk epithets at me,
I bet.
But who knows? because models don't talk
until their crossover careers as actresses
and game show hosts
and by then they've lost their sinewed edge.

it's hard to believe our culture gave birth to both them and cinderella.
i mean, seriously, what kind of mother is that?
maybe she's bipolar and crack-cocaine addicted
suffering from poverty
splintering
going to seed
or maybe she just disappeared
like the mothers in Disney fairytales
died in childbirth
and all her little babies inherited the sin and guilt of that
raised on bottles of soy formula
mixed with too much water.

I wish i didn't have to turn my back on the models dying in the fields
like forgotten crops
or princesses
who awaken from eternal sleep when men kiss their lips--
their last hopes.

"But you do wear dresses, sometimes," he says,
"You did the other day. And that's okay. You don't have to choose."
He means the gala we both went to, for the human rights department.
I was volunteering,
Greeting rich wrinkled faces at the door.
I wore a tight black skirt and tights to cover up my leg hair
and high heels of course.
They clammored for importance on the marble floor
and I felt strangely in-place, a good actress.
commanding authority as I helped squinting old women with crooked lipstick peel back their name tags

and I'm sure it was the shoes.

I was so jealous when Mark walked in sweating in a wrinkled linen shirt
the kind he always wears to class.
He joked he'd spent weeks planning his outfit.
I actually had.
He leaned in close and said he'd biked there,
his eyes glimmering like the sun through the big windows.
We mocked the crystal chandeliers together,
and behind them was all that big blue through the long windows.
and what do you do with all that blue?
do you swallow it?
do you make it into ball gowns?
Well, while I was busy he slipped out the great big front wooden doors
and rode his bike through the blue,
like the end of a movie,
ET or Easy Rider.

I walked outside to greet someone and watched him and thought about waving
but didn't want to ruin the moment
so I grinned and clamored back inside,
a jagged little bird.

procrastination

jess always said she wished she could stop time,
but i think,
if i could,
i'd speed it up
so fast
voices would sound like birds chirping into the wind
their own language
maybe someday i'd learn it too
and we'd all speak like sparrows,
and move our arms like ants
my professors assigning 20 page papers
due in 17 minutes
the cars would just be darts of color
like shooting stars on asphalt sky
shot into the barriers of sound.
and my garden seeds would grow like fountains
spouting out then dying down
digging back into the earth before i have a chance to touch them,
fold their leaves into food
after a while,
i'd just
give up
sigh and lie down in the bathtub of the universe
and let it all roll over me like rivers of jazz
bubble-bath minutes bop-poppin all over my thighs.
i'd dance under the water of time
scat myself to sleep
and then,
make best friends with my prinkly toes.

independent woman

i first see you
in the supemarket
the squeaky clean floors reflect your denim demeanor.
we both reach for the last pack of trident gum
original flavor
because we share an appreciation for the classics.
and your hat is my favorite color: puke green,
and we both have a plentitude of arm hair in the same shade of
eastern european jew
and i like the way you carry yourself,
lightly,
casually,
as if you are dusting the florescent linolium with the hems of your ill-fitting jeans,
and so,
i reason,
sighingly,
we will make love.
i know this because i can imagine it
as clearly as i imagined the guy with the dreads
there was something about them that seemed thoughtful,
like they were matted with insights about the cosmos.
anyway, i'm over him.
Dreads and i imaginary-fucked in a college classroom
but Trident, we'll make love
in a park
on a camping trip,
sleeping under the stars.
you'll point out all the constellations
and say their names in latin,
and i'll resent you for this superior knowledge,
and, trying not to show it,
bury my face in your chest
maybe some nipple-kissing will occur at that point because my mouth will be right there and why else would it be there? and it'd be kind of awkward otherwise
and one thing will lead to another
blah blah blah
and then a month or two later,
i'll discover, at the most inopportune of moments,
that you hate the way my nails are always just a little dirty,
like they can't decide if they want to be dirty or clean,
just like i can't decide if i want to be an activist or a high school teacher. it's all very telling.
we'll be in the car, of course,
and you'll be driving,
because i can't drive and also because the scene is sadder that way,
so maybe it will also be night time
and raining.

anyway,
i'll bite my lip
and then i'll say,
o yea, well i hate the way your pants don't fucking fit
and you'll say,
it's really the brand of milk i drink
with the stupid cow on it,
like, do i really think that cow was raised cruelty-free?
does that really make me feel better about my nice ikea furniture?
and i'll say, ok, that didn't really make sense,
and, more importantly,
you remind me of that science teacher i hated in sixth grade
the one who stared
and always wore gray.
and you always reminded me of him
i just couldn't place it until the exact moment you mentioned the cow
but actually, you're EXACTLY like him
with your fucking earth tones
and penetrating glances.
and that makes you realize i kind of remind you of your sister
the one with the buck teeth
and the weird giggle
god, you hate that giggle
but you don't mention that in this moment
because, ya know,
that's kinda weird.
so we fall into silence.

and when you drop me off at home
i can tell by the way you don't look at me
and leave your knuckle on the gear shift when i walk out into the rain
it's the last time i'll see you.
we've both struck nerves, have too much baggage, brought up too many bad memories
and as i walk into my house, i look back, and see you through the rain-stained window,
popping another piece of gum inti your mouth,
shoving the wrapper into your baggy denim pockets.

fucking bastard.
i don't need you anyway.

blues (for john)

feeling lonely on the beach an arm's length away from you,
the ocean a color i have never seen before,
i can't imagine there's anything out past the sky and sea
and the place they meet--
all those dust motes in the mouth of the universe,
yawning open.

but you say
if i held a magnifying glass to a leaf,
i'd see tiny leaves within it,
and a hundred within each of them,
and on and on,
all their little veins stretching out to sea and sky
like our hands in the darkness,
blind to the galaxies just under our dirty fingernails,
the matted roots of cities
clinging to the insides of our eyes.

and what would thought look like magnified a thousand times?
i wish i could hold a magnifying glass to my loneliness.
would i see just me, palm open, at the edge of the ocean,
trapped within my heart,
within my heart,
within my heart,
like russian dolls?
or would it flow,
like air between us,
water boiling,
honeycombs of currents rising and falling
like breaths,
or half-kisses
ferns still opening,
their tips curled under,
spiralling like toes in the sand.

would loneliness include us both
in its infinity?
the sea and sky and 2 near strangers, old friends still unfurling,
a kaleidoscope of skin and blues.

even now i wonder how much i have known you
through your absences,
the way the sea has carved the earth and in these carvings lives its history.
the way they say that cold is an absence of heat.
and i wonder, is there any such thing as an absence of sky?
and what would it look like, magnified?
maybe the stars that burn when they fall,
like cigarettes,
onto the sand.

they say we've burned holes in the sky,
and i wish i could spin my thoughts into string
and weave a new sky
but then we'd never get the chance to feel its absence.
under a magnifying glass, it looks just like loneliness.
like reaching for words that are not yet born,
their syllables unspiraling.

i would like to see your memories under a magnifying glass,
all the places you have been,
till the deserts are just grains of sand,
and in the grains of sand are deserts,
and your lovers' skin
and my skin,
are all just lines that run like rivers
into spirals at the fingertips.

here is where time curls in on itself,
and i have known you for a week,
and also for forever.

in the palm of your hand,
i trace the patterns of your silences,
the contours of your history,
like your body lying next to me,
or its absence,
like the blues on the sand.

today, in the cabinet with all the pots and pans: an old tied publix bag
filled with my grandmother's prescription medications.

i felt sick, and decided not to make the cupcakes.

it hits me in waves like that, knocks me down.

my parents put her life to rest, cleaned up the house, when i was in india, and so i still find fragments all over the house. sometimes i smell her in the linen closet, and i think, she used that towel last. and the undeniable truth of the past hits me--of the way her life is suddenly obsolete, the way it only exists in the past, in the smell on the towels, or in the bags buried at the bottom of the cabinet.

sometimes i wonder--with it being so built into our lives, why we are so unprepared for death. it seems more like anomaly than destiny, something we can't find a place for, something we try to bury under the pots. but it still forces itself upon us, lurches into our consciousness, when we're trying to make cupcakes.

and not knowing what else to do, we close the cabinet doors.