28.02.2023

The day my dad died

I ate my breakfast quietly 

No Podcast, nor music

There were no radishes for my tartine 

Afterwards, 

I showered 

Shaved my legs and washed my hair

The day my dad died

There were so many calls to make

The rabbi wanted me to write something up for the funeral

I couldn't remember my parents' anniversary

The afternoon of the day my dad died

I sewed shut the broken zipper on the side of a skirt

Put new laces in

My black shoes

Got the mail

Wrote a grocery list

On the evening of the day my dad died

There would be no seven o'clock

"How was your day?" 

Nor "Did you eat any dinner?"

And no "I love you"s

The day after my dad died

We buried him

I watched it all on zoom

Men respectfully covered his grave 

From a mound of dry, grey soil 

The Rabbi spoke of my dad's smile

Intoned prayers

Bade me tear my clothes

All the while

The dishwasher purposefully hummed from the other room.

An apple core oxidised on the table before me

And outside my window

A few white flakes fell from a 

High, grey sky. 

26.02.2023

The old familiar birds nest of your thin bones

Bones that nursed your cancer— 

Carefully, like eggs, 

Until hatched, it consumed you

Liver and spleen,

Now burst you out from that

Chalky cage. 

25.02.2023

How can I pull the

Warm light of day 

Back into the darkness 

Of these atrophied cells, when

Packed under layers of 

Cold, wet earth

I'm already becoming

Blind like stone?

18.02.2023 ●

 

There is a reason we

Compare grief

To a black hole :

It's so massive

Inescapable

It has a gravity

All its own. 

14.02.2023

"Strong" is a trap. 

"Strong" is a lie.

"Strong" denies the cracks in the foundation. 

Were I a house, I would be condemned, 

Not told how the cracks don't show,

How the clumps of crumbling plaster are "normal" after what I've been through, or worse, 

Don't really matter at all.

I am not strong,

Nor am I weak; I am 

Hollowed out, decayed and infested with the blackest mould crawling up my walls. 

I am imploding;

Sinking into unstable ground.

Demons have taken up residency inside my

Derelict walls.

I decay where I stand; that is, 

When I'm able to stand at all. 

Mostly I sit,

Still as old bricks,

And wait for the earth

To reclaim me.

11.02.2023

Old igneous crumb the earth has coughed up

Adrift in black and airless space

Even the stars were a 

Broken promise

Cold

White and

Beautiful corpses.

My Submission to NYT Modern Love

 

Last month, my beloved partner Carrie passed away while I held her hand after a lifetime of severe illnesses. I buried her two days later on what would have been our 18th anniversary. 

Today, thirty three frought days after I lost my love, I turned 54, and so naturally, shortly after I finished my birthday mug of hot chocolate, I broke down and began quietly sobbing in Max Brenner. 

It wasn't loud or particularly disruptive, but if someone happened to look at me, they'd see that my shoulders were subtly shaking, and while my long hair obscured my face, when the waitress asked if there would be anything else, my voice audibly cracked as I asked for my bill. 

Just across the way at another table, two tourists sat and unabashedly stared while they whispered to one another. Rude! 

Ours is a crowded city. I can't count the number of times I've been in a Duane Reade or Gristede's and some young woman in Uggs (always in Uggs,) was on her phone crying, or fighting with someone, and nobody nearby so much as batted an eye. Why? Because in this crowded city, we understand the need for space, for invisibility. We respect one another by not making one another self conscious, by not bothering one another. This isn't because we don't care; on the contrary, it's because we understand. It's because we share so much: space, culture, fate, needs... 

When tourists come into our communal spaces and contravene our cultural standards it's intrusive. They are the proverbial "ugly Americans", regardless of from where they come.   

So I beg of you non New Yorkers: come enjoy our beautiful city, but learn something about our customs and culture, and please don't treat us locals as spectacles. We're just living our lives, and sometimes, that means we are publicly messy.  

Ignore us. (Except when we're trying to pass you on the sidewalk; then, for God's sake, please, get the hell out of our way. )