and family
that they are so unavailable
that I can only sip at them, as if they were hard liquor or kerosene
like the time I have with them is so valuable because it is scarce so
I put my all into it when it is only a flicker or a sparkle
I feel like on some hours I am given too many descisions to make:
I wanted to talk to the stranger on the platform
when he opened his mouth his accent told me he was from Africa
and when I asked a question
he told me he was going to East New York
"Where is that?" I asked.
And my train came
and I was left not knowing if you could smell the oceansalt air in East New York
but I yearned to smile so much
because he had this truthful friendliness
(that matched all the portrayals of Africans in movies and documentaries)
and so I smiled and waved
and he smiled and waved back
Although I am white
I like to think that I have a truthful friendliness, an exuberance a passion about saying words and talking to people and feeling the heat of their skin when I am still a hand's length away from skin
I wish I were not white often
and I know if I said that that people would look at me and say, girl, you do not know what you're talking about, be happy with what you've got--BUT I'M NOT.
because what I've got is whispy thin and people always think that because I'm white and educated and thin and my skin is clear that I have it made.
Having not had to make it for yourself does not mean that you have it made. It is just as hard for you as anybody else. Just as hard.
the man on the train who muddled and solved his rubix cube twice between Hoyt-Schermerhorn and Lafayette:
he had thinning hair
and a face
like that of a pug dog
on a six foot man the color of fluorescent lights.
he looked like a genius should look.
and as always when I am in emotional pain,
I notice the beauty of the sensual world around me:
the sweet baking smell from the Amish bakery that must be something like cinnamon-rasin bread drifting to me as I wait to cross the street in the rain. I am happy that the wind comes from the ocean and not from the mainland because it brings the baking smell to be not the McDonald's one.
The rain streaming down my face was made joyful by the sweet bread smell.
Now listen. I know this is a strange poem.
I want to write a story in which I star in it and there is a happy, defiant beautiful conclusion to the story. I want to narrarate my strength so that I can believe in it better. I want someone to believe in me so I may create them through words. Maybe that isn't the best solution but I write.
