Musings

The suffusion-diffusion of the soul: it comes in waves,
and your brown curls are dancing across your back,
which shivers beneath my fingers. I want
to rush at you, like the waves, but am afraid to break
upon your shore.

Michael's Engagement Party

On the elevator, on the way up to the party, Jack slipped his arm in mine and whispered, "Who would have thought that Michael and Sarah are getting married? I laughed. "Well, she's a smart woman - she caught him and decided not to let him go." The man standing next to us must have heard, because he said, "Well, you're very cyclical about this girl, aren't you?" "I'm a very cynical person." I replied, but after he left, as the doors were closing I called out, "I didn't say there's anything wrong with not letting go of the person you love". I still don't know if he heard. After the doors closed, Jack told me, "You're just jealous.". His fingers were worming their way around my waist.

When we got to the party, it was just as I expected: Food of gilded gold, beautiful to look out, but it tasted like crap. I ate mostly out of boredom, in order to avoid socializing with people I did not know, people I barely knew, and people I wished I did not know. Jackie was in the corner, talking to a swathe of staggering girls about Da Vinci - or rather, about his thesis on Da Vinci.

I was in the middle of stuffing a particularly large piece of sushi into my mouth, sans chopsticks, when Michael's uncle Bill walked by, arm in arm with his new boyfriend. "This is Michelle, Michael's ex-girlfriend" he said. I nearly choked on the fish. "No, friends, we've always been just friends." I said. "No, but I thought you were his girlfriend" the Bill said, and I gave him the look of death. "This is my friend, Charles." I nodded politely. Charles asked me if I knew when they would start the dancing. I excused myself to look for the ladies' room. On the way, I wondered how much younger Charles was than Bill, and who was on top when they made love.

During the tabled part of the reception, Jack and I sat next to Michael and Sarah. As "close childhood friends", we were expected to act as the bridges between Sarah's world - and now, Michael's world as well - and the world of Michael's past. As the evening progressed, full of witty banter shot across the table like doubles playing tennis, an invisible net between us, I realized that my circle of three had now become four - four movie tickets, four places to reserve at the restaurant, four seats to look for on the subway.

At one point, Michael asked me about a party I had gone to last week. "It was an engagement party", I explained, and immediately was prompted to launch into details about the couple, one of whom, it turned out, had gone to high-school with Sarah. "Well they were friends, and finally they realized they were attracted to each other - more than attracted - in love with each other I guess, since they decided to get married." My palms grew sweaty as I spoke, and I could not look Sarah in the eye. My gaze kept on wondering to her left hand, which was resting gently on Michael's thigh.

On the way back from the party, Jack told me, "It wouldn't have worked out" "What?" I said. "You and Michael" he said. 'Well you're way off the mark. I think Sarah will make him a lovely wife." I replied, ashamed that I could not keep from yelling at him. "Can I come in?" he asked, when he dropped me off at my door. "No." I said. I did not even bother to say goodnight, but merely turned around and walked up the steps to my building. I could sense him standing behind me, watching me climb, and thought for a second that I saw him out of the corner of my eye when I turned my head slightly at the threshold.

My apartment was exactly as I had left it: a mess. I kicked off my shoes - a pair of red heals that squeezed my toes like a python - and poured myself a bottle of red wine. I picked up the newspaper, but was too distracted to read. The war-pictures on the front page reminded me of something a friend had told me in highschool:"Sometimes life feels like a war of attrition, a constant low-scale struggle that kills and never ends. That's why telenovellas can go on forever - because the dramas in our life continue indefinitely - well, until death, I guess." That statement really creeped me out. I was convinced my friend was suicidal, so I referred her to the school guidance counselor (nicknamed "Guido counselor" for the way he wore his hair), and that was pretty much the end of our friendship. I think now she lives somewhere in Minnesota with her girlfriend.

But tonight, I pondered how cool it would be if you could buy bullet-proof vests for life. I pictured myself -black pencil skirt, blonde hair in a bun, patent leather stiletto pumps, and of course, my black-belted life--proof-vest - I would be invincible. With that image in my mind, I spilled red wine on my dress.

Thank God for dry cleaners.

Pondering Exile in the Temple of Dendur

The bulrushes do not breathe:
they are mirrored in Central Park trees,
who shiver outside of the glass.

The bullrushes frame my faces's reflection
in the rippling pond. Once Moses was framed
in their green, along the Nile, cradled in a brown ark.

Tar mingled with the drops of breast-milk
that fell from Yocheved's teat, as she bent over
the sleeping child to kiss his cheek.

Batya was bathing by the bullrushes
when she encased the baby in her alabaster body.
At night, her body was a stone shrouded in white sheets.

Her breasts were drier than desert winds,
so Yocheved nursed the baby, with the milk of her bones
and the mud of her skin. And he carried her uncle's bones

through split seas and desert winds. At night, he dreamt
of the bullrushes' breath. During the day, he heard the voice of God
in the burning flames and desert winds. God heard the voice of the Israelites

in mounds of mortar. I hear only the sounds of my breath,
mingling with the stillness of the bullrushes, like me, exiled
to foreign waters that do not split like the alabaster bowls of time.

Petals Can Not Say Goodbye

Before you walked away:
Purple petals snore softly into pools of white water,
my fingertips rippling like wind across your back.

Now:
Forgotten fissures crack through my spine;
I am an empty vase dreaming of purple flowers.

Psychedelia (In memory of my grandmother)

Beneath your fluttering eyelids,
your green-flecked eyes struggle to stay open,
urged on by the drone of my voice,
buzzing about the weather and school
and all those small glorious things
I want you to care about.

"Morphine" the nurse calls, "morphine".
Your hands fall into mine like autumn leaves.
The white drops drip into your blood like rain;
I imagine them mingling with the purple of your veins.
The canopies of your eyelids are still,
shielding your eyes from mine.

Are you falling asleep
in a shower of purple flowers,
or drugged dreams I can not fathom,
and who will protect you from the storm
when my hand slowly disentangles from yours?