Things I do not know

I do not know what color really is
I do not know the capital of Kazakhstan or the precise way to describe how the sky looks on any given day
I do not know who made this pen.
I do not know who has touched this notebook before me
I do not know how I will die or why people die or if I even know what dying is.
I do know that I will die.
I do not know how there are people who still claim that the Holocaust did not happen.
I do not know how carrying a poster against the war will help end the war or why there even is a war or how someone can kill another.
I do not know where my sunglasses are.
I do not know the name of my mail carrier or the chancellor of Austria or how many Cheerios are in a box.
I do not know what it feels like to live in a desert.
I do not know what my life would be like without you in it.
I do not know how to read Hebrew or Arabic or Japanese.
I do not know why people would have voted for Bush, twice!
I do not know how men can hit their wives or children can hate their siblings.
I do not know what I will be doing next year or the texture of that shirt you used to wear or how long I could write before my hand would collapse on the page.
I do not know what it's like to be stupid or destitute or blind or greedy or in love with a stripper.
I do not know how trees perceive the world.
I do not know why there is suffering.
I do not know what cream cheese and pumpernickel bread would taste like.

Ambulatory, or I walk in your footsteps

I walk because my feet like hitting the ground
because otherwise I’d never hear the crunch of gravel or leaves or the shrill rumbling
of children’s bikes with teal plastic wheels

I walk to get somewhere or to go in circles

I walk because my car broke, my bike broke, and i’m too broke for the bus

I walk because when I walk, I remember all the other times I’ve walked
and my life is suddenly a coherent whole

I walk so my thoughts can see where they’ve come from

I walk because I am coming and going

I walk because my shoes are delighted

I walk to forget, but I end up remembering

I walk to school

I walk so the sun has something to look at besides housetops and rooftops and abandonedbuilding tops

I walk on sidewalk, on disheveled glass, and on spongy grass

I don’t walk in heels

If I walk on the same path enough, I can see where I’ve walked before

I am a gymnast of the streets;
the curb is my balance beam.

What is a hand?

What is a hand
when it’s
not holding
anything
when its
fingertips aren’t
pruny from washing dishes
puckered
and ridged
when it doesn’t
reach out
touch
know
the lines
in your face
when it doesn’t hold
a pen to
paper
scratch scratch
scratching the
surface
when it doesn’t go
numb
in the cold
prickling and
tingling
when it doesn’t grab
or snatch or steal
or tickle or rub
or hit
or high five?

Tell me---
what then is a hand?

Framework

She told me everything she had learned about love, she had learned from these paintings. Everything about movement, from the statues. Everything about death, from the people's faces, looking at the paintings and the statues.

"Love looks like an accidental brushstroke of yellow in a green forest, you can fully understand movement only in its absence, and death is a shadow on the face of an 11-year-old girl with uneven pigtails and mismatched socks."



-from the only short story I've ever written but hopefully not the only short story I'll ever write

I write poetry

I write poetry because the paper stays still.
I write poetry because I don’t have to justify and account for all the different versions of myself.
I write poetry because I contain multitudes.
I write poetry because water can renew, bring life, or kill and I want to know which it is.
I write poetry because I was bored before.
I write poetry because I want to know why.
I write poetry because red can be firehouse, apple, or blood.
I write poetry because I think that buildings communicate so they don’t run into each other.
I write poetry because the people who died in 9/11 can’t.
I write poetry because I collect words.
I write poetry because I don’t understand war.
I write poetry because you turned into a specter before my eyes and you’re haunting me.
I write poetry because I know the significance of subjunctive mood.
I write poetry because psychology still hasn’t figured out the mind.
I write poetry because it sounds good.
I write poetry because God is eavesdropping on all of your conversations.
I write poetry because it makes me squirm.
I write poetry because I write poetry because I write poetry.

If I could be a noise

I would be the sound a heel makes when it strikes a bathtub
or maybe the noise of a sparkler fizzling out
yesterday I would have said
a slinky on the stairs
but today I think the turning of a page
or the gurgle of a stomach
or maybe the creak of a
bone or a glass bottle in a recycling bin
definitely not nails on a chalkboard
or a knife cutting Styrofoam
but probably closer to an engine
starting or a tree falling
or even a woman lisping
or a man sneezing
probably not a lion roaring or
a clock ticking
something closer to an echo
or a creek gurgling
or a garbage truck beeping
I’m almost certain I would be a key
turning in a lock.
But then again--
I might be the sound of a flower blooming.