Yesterday, at 9 am 

I took the train, 

went to the MET.

Thursday morning light 

Tourists stagger, eyes meeting, 

quickly separating. 

Delicately through a glass 

I see it sitting lonely; 

a tiara of some sort 

I wonder whose daughter wore that crown. 

How delicate it must have felt between her fingers.

Did she ever hold it up to the sun to examine it?

Did she find beauty in the way the light would reflect?

I wonder if it was made especially for her. 

Or if she got in from her mother, 

who got it from her mother. 

Similar to how I receive endless items from my mother 

as she hands them to me over time. 

A bright pink butterfly clip with cheap gemstones, 

I keep it on my handbag. 

The silver necklace with a cage that holds, 

the only pearl I’ll ever wear. 

The round floral hat boxes, 

that sit on the highest shelf of my closet. 

I don’t know if I would want 

my belongings to live in a glass case, 

in a big museum with tourists gazing mindlessly at them. 

I would prefer them to get lost in the dirt, fading away, 

returning to earth, the same way my body 

is destined to do. 

Three dogs, a Mastiff, a Great Dane, and a small, white, fluffy thing take their owner for a walk.

Undaunted, she wears a serious expression and clings to the leashes. 

Her back arches back. She puffs her chest out like a chicken’s. 

Another woman pushes a baby in a stroller up a steep hill. 

She breathes heavily, exhaling through thin lips. 

The trees ready themselves for their final masquerade. 

Adorned with the richest of colors. 

The mother says hello. 

The baby says hello. 

Leaves are sent as messengers down to the ground. 

The squirrels seem to understand. 

They are encouraged to make themselves known. 

A display of appreciation with scampers and scurries. 

Small, soft paws, suddenly ostentatious. So loud. 

The trees sway to the crunches from below.

I wonder if they still get afraid. 

To go bare and vulnerable to the cold. 

Over and over and over. 

Maybe they are wiser. 

They know for every winter, there will be another masquerade. 

They will dance again. 

Again and again and again. 

Morning mothers me.

Pots of coffee. 

Intensity. Insanity. 

The night before, 

swept under the rug. 

To console. 

To comfort. 

To confess. 

To love. 

In the morning, 

I hold 

conviction. 

Ink stained fingers 

in the morning. 

Delusions hardly bites 

at my ankles 

in the morning. 

There is no 

isolation 

in the morning. 

Until ink, blood, tears 

run dry. 

The rambling won’t stop. 

Bubbling, babbling, boiling. 

Chicken heads burning and screaming. 

in the oven 

in the morning. 

“Let us out! We are past done! We have far too much to show! Dinner guests! Dinner guests! We have far too much to show!” 

Thumping on the wall.
Reconstructing. 

Reconstructing the way the set the Walmart on fire.

Sirens were screaming. 

I call a friend. 

I tell her about yesterday.

The color of the sky.

The shingles on the roof.

I felt like an empty picture frame

in a museum. 

The walls were empty.

nothing in sight but 

silhouettes.

I scoured the sea.

Searched the jungle.
Not a single brushstroke.

I sit on the balcony.

The clouds stubbornly shroud the sky.

It's pollen's peak season.
They say it's real bad this year.

Mother nature's powdered sugar. 

wisps heaps wisps heaps

I've never been allergic. 

I sit there for hours.

Silhouettes long forgotten.

It's 12 p.m. I put on my shoes.

The ones that make my ankles bruise.

I walk through the city

to the grocery store.

I buy powdered sugar.

It reminds me of snow.

I pick a flavor of gelato.

It's imprisoned behind glass.

Cold to touch.

I shiver. 

I think of fireplaces. Warmth.

Paradise in December frost.

I walked outside.

It's raining when  set sail away from paradise.

I miss when I was little. 

I’d go to the doctor, 

they’d give me my shots, 

tap my knees with a little hammer,

then, at the end. 

I would get a big round sticker that came in those rolls 

and they would bring out a basket filled with dum dums. 

I would always get the pineapple ones 

because they were the best. 

Things are different now, 

and I wish I had pineapple dum dums. 

1.

on borrowed time we’re

Dancing in the windows

of the 9th floor.

where are you right now?

what about yesterday?

another city

cynicism

endearingly,

i’m reminded

i’m smaller than I think

you give me inspiration

to do anything

knocking on doors

staring out my window

looking for another you

all i see are candle flames

i’ll catch a plane

get on the train

catch you on E train

you’ll be on the way

to the Dentist

at your door again i stand

the city’s standing next to me

we’re waiting for another thought

to illuminate the streets tonight

hurry, get out of your head

rub your hands together

cold and red from the metal cyan swing set.

uneasiness

in the way you take your breaths. 

a dancer

each movement 

carefully calculated 

not an unpleasant memory

you cross my brain

i would have picked yours

i didn’t know you well

i recognized something

in your eyes

i see the same thing in the mirror.

furrowed brows

you’ve done well

you always question

everything

we might be different

i don’t really mind

i only wonder

if i served as a mirror

for you too.