As I write myself into existence

(finally alive, no longer a lie)

I unwrite the lies I swallowed and did my best to embody as truth

(finally alive, no longer a lie)

I unwrite

• a misunderstanding of sexuality: I am allowed to be desirous, hungry, even unquenchable

I unwrite

• the lie that we must stand in either/or: I am both, I am neither. I am everything all at once, a paradox

I unwrite

• that my skin is too dark, freckled like a ripe strawberry: I will never rub it away

I unwrite

• the limitations of my Blackness: Everything I touch is Black, like Midas but make it Hoodoo

As I write myself into existence

I realize the truth

I re-member

I stitch together stars, the gases of Jupiter, Neptune

to make a body unbridled by fear

I unwrite to rewrite

long pauses
short walks
on a quest
to find
something
I can stare at
contemplating
existence
waiting for
Godot
or a bus
or something
for fifteen
minutes
before
schlepping
back to
flop in 
my comfy chair
with a hrmph
to then
remember
and rise
to return
to the prior
location
and grab
an incorrect
item

but the grandchildren,

who’ve never seen a paper,

have no idea what… 

There are men out there 
Who claim the title
Of “father” and “dad” 
They talk, all that talk 
But never really 
Walk the Walk 
They “pay” their dues
But you never see them 
Those men don’t show 
Their faces in crowds 
Or in the stands 
They are always late 
Even when they set the time
Their entitlement supersedes all else
But you….You, always show up. 
If you’re late, there’s a reason 
That is never your own
You let it be known why
Apologies are something you aren’t afraid of 
Tender words and kind eyes
Are never far away
Every band practice, recital, 
Concert, skinned knee and parent pick up 
Every friend tift, broken heart, awards ceremony 
Thank you for everything 
Most of all…
For being so deserving 
Of such a holiday.
You’re the best 
We could have ever hoped for, 
And so much more.

I’ll put this sage by the rosemary. 
Despite the shade from the elm tree,
they should get plenty of sun. 
And the new dahlia
tubers, I worry,
are they too deep,
so precious,
I lose 
sleep. 

Sometimes poetry leaps 
from my pen, whale breaching 
brine, but today it is an idle
goldfish trapped in my mind,
circling the confines
of its glass bowl, too feeble
to realize freedom
hovers inches above its empty
head, if only its bulging eyes
would look up.

my eyelids are heavy
a tear falling from laying on my side
i cant keep them open any longer
my continuous swiping is slowing 
but im not even t
                                i
                                  r
                                    e
                                       d

If souls walk among us.

He is walking
through ruins of his wounded
synagogue.

He is preaching
through unborn poems to a jury:
Giving life is justice. 

He is quoting
Rashi, vintner-scholar, his teachings key  
for corking this bitter wine.
                                           
Or….

He is outraged
by murders in his home and kneads
a needle through Haman’s arm.

I’ll  never know.
         
I only know
his pulpit where I lifted a scroll to the sky
for worshippers to see

is dead to me,
gone (I hope) to where he is now,
rabbi and synagogue remarried. 

As for he
who violated the holy space?
I …. 

                                                                          Remembering Dr. Herman Hailperin,
                                                                          late rabbi of Tree of Life synagogue,
                                                                          Pittsburgh, PA, and my uncle.

Remember how there’s just something about a fat crayon
that just doesn’t behave the way you wish it would?
Kindergarten shame blooms pink blotches across my face 
still at almost 34 years old, because I’m using them now
to color my self-portrait, an array of off-brand colors 
from which to choose; none so deliciously vibrant
as the shiny skinny Crayolas God used to color my friends.

And I’m still staring blankly into my mirror propped on the floor,
only seeing a heap of a person who cannot fit into her jeans anymore,
still unruly frizzy curls and the clock operating in another time zone,
frozen there in a muddy watercolor puddle of pink blue yellow,
wondering how every color of the rainbow 
can be splashed across all the flags flying proudly this June,
but I still can’t hear that quiet voice in my head
that used to tell me what to draw.

It’s been a whole lot easier the last few years to just stop coloring 
this self-portrait. The buzzing in my head at five years old 
is now more of a chainsaw scream, and if I had crushes on boys
in kindergarten and sixth grade and my last year in college,
how dare I choose from the beautifully bold Crayola rainbow
to scribble myself down indelibly onto the page?

I’m still left with my fists full of skinny broken crayons,
wax of every color wedged harshly beneath my nails.
There’s something so tragically poetic that I dig so deep 
each June, hitting a well of scalding tears each year
that now flood my page of verse and scribbles,
still not turning out the way I had ever imagined.