god is powerwashing the streets again.
spray falls
infinitely it seems,
from the hands of a man with a long white beard.
he wears small rimmed glasses
(because nobody’s perfect)
and he needs to see all the way
down but he can’t possibly -
especially not with all the
fog that’s fogging
so he’s cleaning
and i’m steaming in it
running with it
lapping up the drops to soak
my insides as he soaks
the outsides and
the-wetter-the-better.
i untuck hands out of pockets
undrag hems off the streets
unfix my chin from my chest
stop still on stones
peel back my eyelids
and meet his misty gaze.
her hair’s turned silver now, swirls of soft smoke curled and wrapped and tucked, pinned under a wave of soft blue muslin. the cloth strokes her cheek, cradles her chin. her sight sags deeper these days, and bags sink, lower and lower, caves in her eyelids and over her cheekbones. eyes are beady dark pools, swimming in wrinkles, squinting in the light. her small body is shrouded, any figure indistinguishable, with layers surrounding her as years have slipped by her and always her hair has been covered. once upon a time before arthritis enveloped her fingers they moved deftly in the evenings, pulling fabric from around her face and unbraiding thick dark hair-strands. and the soft fell down over her shoulders, for only her husband to see, and her eyes pointed down and her cheeks turned pink because shy was what she should be. she covered her mouth with her hand as she whispered, timid assertions spilling into her palms, so much that now she folds inwards. she pulls her knees to her chest in the doorway, face turned to her neighbor. they purse their lips and silently, they blink together.
There’s a little girl and she’s sitting in the snow and she’s eating a lollipop. Can anyone really eat a lollipop? She’s just circling that short plastic stick, over and over, rubbing sugar onto her tongue, coating the insides of her cheeks with the stuff of cavities. She’ll save some of that corn syrup for later, so it’ll soak into her teeth and nestle in the tender spots. Later she’ll go to the dentist and he’ll poke at her molars, asking why her spaces are so sticky, berating her for forgetting to floss. By then she’ll have forgotten about the lollipop and she’ll put her defenses up, fluttering her tiny eyelids and protesting that she’s ever done the wrong thing. The dentist will smile at the flash of bright blue eyes under his fluorescent overhead light and he’ll forget why he was scolding such a perfect porcelain face.
i like woman black.
he said,
words dropping slow
and thick from pursed lips
surrounded by
coffee-with-cream-colored skin
pulled taut across sharp cheekbones,
and his palms were muddy
and his chest was sweaty.
drool fell down his chin as he
spoke it he slurred it
with a head nod and a pointed finger,
and his eyes were greedy
and his stare was dirty.
she turned a shoulder
so the sentence hit her
black, her back, her
soft black skin,
black like
just the way he likes it
(or so he said).
that’s woman black,
like night like
black like coal like
warmth, black that spreads
to bright eyes and
careful smile,
black like he will
never know and black like
he will never touch.
black next to white, next to
freckles like black
in contrast,
black like he had
too much black like
dirt under his fingernails,
too many misconceptions
not enough
depth perception
to see how far she shone.
she wrapped her coat a little tighter
pulled her friends a little closer
stepped ahead a little faster,
then turned and
laughed into the evening,
leaving him to fade
into the foreign clutter
of morocco’s crowded streets.
It’s clever, really. A plan to soak up everything inside, like the last crust of bread at the end of a soggy dinner, the last of the juices expanding the grains as fingers sweep it across the emptied dish. When that happens I have to rush the bread to my tongue, before it all drips down my chin onto my clean white shirt. It’ll drop in droplets, drip drop dropping, staining, corrupting, that sauce that escaped the bread. Like those thoughts stuck in my head. And speaking of droplets, yesterday the tears fell again, I’ve been meaning to tell someone, one of these days, drip drop dropping. Clouded up the corners of my eyes and then I felt those droplets dripping, warm, almost too warm, but not quite warm enough, steaming down my cheeks and leaving creases. Drops made my upper lip salty. I was driving while I was crying, highway speeds, foot on the gas, all the while my face was getting damp. I didn’t swerve at all, not even a little bit, just kept my foot right there on the pedal. All the way up to 85, I almost never go that fast. Maybe it was the droplets. I passed a truck, on the right side even, a big huge silver one pulling extra weight behind it. It was the kind who’s driver probably has to read those silly clearance signs they put next to overpasses and traffic lights and sheltered public driveways. Not just read them, pay attention to them. It was the kind who’s driver should probably be careful. I passed him just because I could, because I’m strong enough, because my chest was pounding, because my eyes were steaming, streaming, drip drop dropping. I know that truck with its extra weight behind it could take someone plain off the face of this planet. I don’t quite know how it would happen, the blood and gore of it all, the details of the sounds, the vision, the speed, the ending. Not to say I haven’t tried to understand, it’s morbid really but sometimes the deepest corners of my mind drip down that way. I never get all the way there. But I do know how many hearts it would shatter to pieces. Taking someone away like that, I mean. Interesting to think about, I mean really think about, how many persons people care about, and how many people care about a person. I’ll say it again. How many persons people care about and how many people care about a person. Yeah. One person gets up in the morning and makes a difference, a difference that drip drops down and dances around and spins and maybe even twirls a little and all the while that difference is dripping on people. And people care about so many persons. So the drip keeps dropping, drip drop dropping, until we all have swollen eyes and swollen hearts. Sometimes they feel full, contented, but sometimes they feel heavy. And now the sauce is dripping, drip drop dropping, down my face, but I guess that’s okay. We all get a little messy. Maybe, even just a little bit, the droplets make us stronger.
Dear Lady Gaga,
I want to tell you about my friend Paige. She was brilliant, beautiful, and blonde. She moved constantly. She biked, she ran, she jumped, and she danced her heart out. And it breaks MY heart to have to say these things in the past tense - her last adventure brought her across the country on a bicycle, and she was tragically struck and killed by a truck in South Dakota.
Paige was with me in the fall of 2009, when we studied abroad for a semester in Barcelona. I had a wonderful experience, and I loved Spain, but living with a group of 45 American college students, it was hard to forget where we came from. So sometimes, we needed to put on some music with English lyrics, and JUST DANCE.
Bad Romance was released toward the end of our time in Spain, and Paige was instantly hooked. With her roommate, she spent patient hours learning your steps. She performed them everywhere she saw fit - from her bedroom to common spaces to airports to city streets, whether music was playing or not.
I’m writing to you because I want to explain what Bad Romance means for me, and for the community of people who knew Paige in Spain. We may not be a large or well-known group but for us, in this unbearable time, Bad Romance has become much more than a pop song. When we hear it now, blaring from the radio, from our ipods, from our cell phone ringtones, tears stream down our faces, but we remember how to smile. We scream the words because we don’t know what else to do, because it pulses through us and we can see Paige, all six feet of her, bouncing and stretching her limbs. Your song has become an anthem of sorts, a way to remember a dear friend at her happiest.
Paige was and is an inspiration, with her light-heartedness, her buoyancy, and her smile. She latched onto your creativity and found a way to express herself alongside it, teaching us to never stop moving. It’s a message we carry with us now, and a warmth we remember whenever Bad Romance pours out of the speakers.
So thank you for your song, and know that for us, it has made a difference.
