we saw each other

i thought i saw a white hat

passing by my house.


it was just the tip of a

flag; it was just used as a


weapon of war.

to be a cone in


training, to be washed

up on the shore so far


from your mother drum—

from where you also came


from: you can’t hear your

heart beat any more.


you think others are erasing

you, but you are erasing


your self—strike by strike,

gun by gun.


we all came

from a woman;


we all lay helpless

at the tit and grew.


we used to be



now we beg, borrow,

steal, kill—


in the name

of history.


our birth is our

birth-right: a gestalt


of will. we were all

there at the beginning.


we saw each other

across the


great expanse

and knew.




here’s the truth i never really told

my eyes have not seen

nearly enough—

and, yet, too much.

out of the corner of one:


my hand—bent like

my grandmother’s,

like i’m cut

in half.


part of

my privilege




i must allow myself to undress,

to let go, to see what’s under

the show: this is the time.

this is where i am, taking a stand—


i do not

want you

in my



but hear the


they are for



how i wanted to be a

miniature in your

china cabinet, tucked

up in ruby red glory,



aware of




i am hard.

i am glass.

i cannot change

time, space, the past.


the mind does not

want you to know

your self, your

iron-on heart,


how to sit with the

hurt and be a light,

a lamp, a fire



how can


talk to



i am laughing; i am charlie

chaplin weeping on the

inside. first time’s the charm;

after that, it’s just repeats.


i am alone.

a heart in a house.

does a house

need a heart?


laid up for nine months, like gestation, and

what was born? i am turning into stone.

how can you force a turtle? if you

push it, it just goes skidding.


if i stand still long enough, can i cheat time?

can i drill down into space and rewind?

can i find my inner child, waiting there

with a shell in her outstretched hands—



here, you’re

going to need



i do not have the

stomach for a

revolution. i am not

my grandmother.

close carry

i used to fall asleep in the car,

riding home at night after a


long outing. i remember the hum

of the road, the flashing head


lamps; i remember the sudden quiet

of the engine cutting off, daddy scooping


me up in his arms to carry me in. some

times a shoe would slip, a mumble, a word—


a hint that i wasn’t completely asleep;

but he would carry me up the stairs into


the house, up the stairs into my bed.

i don’t remember what was said: just


the strong arms around me, the

scent of man, of capability, of love.


later there would be times i would try

to recreate this safe feeling, this


extended touch, this close carry.

but it was never the same.