Drunk Savior

I still don’t believe in love at first sight, but you’re the first boy I’ve ever called “perfect” so quickly.
She told me you were a sweetheart, and that if her parents could learn to see past the color-line, she’d
want you for herself.
Since parents never learn, she wants me to have you.
She called you a sweetheart, but I learned long ago that girls lie.

And then I met you.

You called her to ask if I wanted anything.
Out of the blue, no additonal questions asked, no what-would-you-get-out-of-it—reimbursement was
not a condition of your saying, “Okay.”

She told me you were a sweetheart, but still I needed to see for myself.

You called us to say you were driving over, but promised you wouldn’t be driving back—you knew [we
knew] better than that.
Shook my hand as I climbed in your backseat, wishing I were smaller.
Asked me where I’m from, what I do, what I like.

Once we got to the party you gave me mine, a gift—did things right from the start.
And when I’d sufficiently floated away to my happy place, thinking I could grind against the wall, ignore
the fight and it would go away, you were the one to listen to her say the party was over, we had
to get out of her fucking house now!
Temporarily fearless, I wanted to lead the way, but you held me back, saying you’d go first—no one
knew what we’d find upstairs.

The five of us found our coats and left the house, traipsing through the streets in search of the nearest
bus stop.
You were walking next to me, and I announced that I’d like some help with that whole walking thing—
my high heels and I were not getting along—half-truth, half-ploy to get you to touch me, as I
expected that you or someone else would extend an arm, let me lean on you.
Going more than one step forward, you squatted down like it was suddenly the early nineties again and
we were children playing piggyback…you wanted me to mount you, not the other way around.
Laughed it off, but I was touched, and then touch me you did, taking my arm: I was now being escorted.

I thought you were smiling in the picture on the bus, but seeing, later, your funny face made me laugh.

She asked where was her homecooked meal, which in moments became the idea of pancakes at this
hour! the no longer wee hours of the morning.
And despite your state, you sweet-talked our way into your apartment building and got out the box of
Bisquick—my wonderful chef.
Keeping your promise, our bellies were soon full of flour all syrupy-sweet: now we’re too tired to go
back to her dorm.
Hearing, you reappeared: a sleeping bag, a mat, blankets and a pillow—no questions asked.

Two days later on the train, staring out the window-seat as always, the graffiti artists had borned an
unorthodox phrase: next to one another, unmatching scripts, not belonging together but in the
same place at the same time, masquerading [hoping, wishing] as a unit—DRUNK SAVIOR.

Dear Son/Daughter

Today marks three years and still I don’t quite know
whether to tell you I’m sorry, I should have let you grow,

Or if this choice, all mine, was the best—because you see,
dear Son/Daughter, you deserved a better mother than me.

Three years ago today, I kept, at half past noon
the appointment that sealed your—and my—impending doom.

Your father wasn’t there, I was all alone
in the waiting room, debating the unknown.

I was twenty-one, with an apartment, a job, a car,
but no man, and that job was at this run-down bar…

I drink a little too much, that’s what got me in this mess
dear Son/Daughter, would you have been more love or stress?

There were seven other women in the waiting room:
eyes averted, fidgeting hands avoiding soon-to-be-tomb wombs.

Dear Son/Daughter, I saw you once, on the ultrasound machine,
a small spot in the middle of the fuzziness on the screen—

It was never real until that second I saw you.
my eyes began to water, and as if that were his cue,

The doctor told me it wouldn’t hurt, that everything would be okay:
no one explained how empty I’d feel when the knife took you away.

They told me about cramps, bleeding, days missed from work,
but not once did they mention the regrets that would lurk,

Or how every time I saw a heavily pregnant woman, I would sigh
and just driving past Babies-R-Us would make me want to cry,

Or even that now, when I pick my neice up from day care,
I’d wonder what face would have been yours, what clothes you would wear…

But then I think, would this life of mine have been enough?
a commitment like you would have called my unending bluff.

Because I knew I couldn’t give you everything I would have wanted,
I used my right to liberty to take your right to life, which I took for granted.

Yet happiness has eluded me—I hope you found it on the other side:
dear Son/Daughter, please don’t tell me your only chance was the life I denied.

I dress in all black today, asking myself for the millionth time: would morning
sickness have been better than mourning?

Escape Velocity

How fast
Must I flee to
Escape the gravity
Of this rough, hard, damned lovely thing
Called life?

Hard place,
Rock, me between
Decisions must be made
In a strong place that won’t change with
The world.

Quiet,
A cold place where
I see but none see me.
Perfection: green rock, holey not
Holy.

Too cold
To stay out, but
Inside I feel like I’m
Dying; I feel like I’m dying
Inside.

So out
I stay, curled in
Cold, hard, shell-like green stone.
Touching nothing but smooth nothing,
I’m free.