The aquarium unnatural as a glass eye
where sight should be,
I wonder when the world will be made whole.

How many hours awake
before the body gives up?

My grandfather is king of his island.

Walking along the South Shore
we stepped around a big dead bird,
grey and white body nestled
like a shell in sand.

Captain Christopher Billopp built his
grand stone manor overlooking the beach
in 1680. Admiral Lord Richard Howe took it
over in 1776, and today, the museum hosts tours

for $3 a pop.
We can all be a part of history.

Aunt Sharon showed us where
the red cliffs washed away.
Houses are built close on roads leading
to the small coast that’s left
overlooking Arthur Kill and Perth Amboy.

We ate at Z restaurant for lunch,
and ordered
whatever we wanted
as per Grandpa.

There is so much about the man
I don’t know.

High ceilings changed colors,
orange and bronze pillars
surrounded the room,
tv’s were set in large gold picture frames,
menus were too heavy to hold up.

I ordered a tuna steak salad
rare, from the waitress
with frosted blonde hair
who was kind and tired,

and annoyed at the giant menus.
She let Grandpa get the lunch special,
even though it was well after three.
He said his favorite Broadway show
is South Pacific.

Staten Island always feels like coming home.
Especially when it hurts.

I’ve never been good at saying what I mean,
so I hugged Grandpa for a few extra seconds
and thanked him again for lunch
before climbing back into the car.

His tomato garden is a sand box now.
His grill is warped and no good from burning
brush in it with lighter fluid last summer.

The sun was just starting to go down when we
headed toward the ferry.

He waved and closed the front door behind him,
then I imagine he hung up his coat.

There is little life in
knowing nothing but cars
and magazines, work, food and sleep,
which parties to fill up the weekend.

The hands of a monk are weather beaten,
well-traveled, and wild. No one
can make you turn inward.

Every man is a multitude.
We are made up of desert and garden,
underwater kingdoms and
quiet desperation.

Who will answer the love that is in you?

Taxis roar toward the sunrise
of Brooklyn with heiress
and artist a silent tangle in back seat.

Bus-boys clock in for side-work
on Delancey.

Music makes the soul move
or drowns out its yearning.

Every man is alone in the most
beautiful way,
most rail against the silence.

God creates out of love and
lets go of. Who is He that would
leave us to our freedom?

What is money that we would trade
our freedom for it?

Waking early while the sidewalk is
still glistening with last night’s rain,
the heart finds uncomfortable silence.

No one can make a man love,
but solitude is a gift born
out of the dirt of aloneness,
growing toward the light of others.

The sirens from 2nd street roar
toward a burning building.

The commuters file back to Jersey City.

When will the scenery change
enough to satisfy the longing?
What can satisfy the mouth
of lust?

Lonely and solitary,
lust and love,
greed and hunger;

these are not two sides of the same coin,
they are different currency altogether.

How do we not close in on the ones we love?
Who keeps our house of cards from falling?

Every man needs.

Hunger comes back.
So does the morning.

Discipline expands the realm
of possible.
Laziness cripples the one
who would live.

When will we beat the grasping?
Find freedom in letting go?

The garbage trucks leave
before the sun rises.

Who is God that He would leave
us to our freedom?

I unrolled my yoga mat on the creaky
wood floor of our living room
and did situps until my stomach burned.

I could not hear another helicopter
roar above me, so I crawled out of bed
and sought the Lord half heartedly.
I read Psalms and drank water.

I took Melatonin and closed my eyes.
I counted my breaths and my heart pounded
louder. Who am I that sleep should leave me?
What will I do when my alarm rings
before the sun rises?

Today I will be tired. The Lord met me
in my waking but sleep would not come
with asking.

What the hell is wrong with me?
I cannot control my tongue when I am tired.
I am tired.

I sought the Lord whom I love
and He gave me angels.
I talked to the angels and still
could not sleep.

My soul waits for you to close
my eyes dear Jesus. It is 3 am
and the sleep just won’t come.

I like that mask you wear.
And how your hands can’t help but move
as you give out warnings.

You are watching too.
Like google.
Like the iPhone.
Even the one in the basement.

You say, “expect us,” and I say,
I’m happy to have you.
I’ll make dinner.
Tell me what you want.

What is justice?
Whose privacy really matters?
I want the government to be small.

I like the way your hands can’t help but move
when you talk about the bills that passed,
whose freedom is getting smaller.

I don’t know what you stand for,
but sitting you are tall and austere.
Your mask makes you look like
a lover.

You’d have to ask my father
if you wanted to take me out.
He’s a pastor upstate you know.

I guess you already knew that.
The movement gets bigger and bigger.
They aired you on abc.

Don’t ever tell me your name.
Freedom belongs to everyone.
The government works best
when it’s small.

I wonder how many toes you have stepped
on, whose yard you played baseball in
last.

If you decide you want to talk,
I’d love to hear more about you.

Your hands and the echo,
the mask and the travel,
I’m happy to meet,
if you call first.

I paint my nails
the color of skin
and pretend my
stomach isn’t full
before bed.

The dishwasher groans
in our ground floor
apartment. The timing,
the lighting is beautiful.

I forgot to buy coconut milk
for the morning.
My email has been checked
and rechecked.

There are things I need
to say to God. Thoughts
I don’t know how to get out.
Light leaks out from the bathroom
door, and spills from the lamp
to the floor.

My computer is fully charged.
I need to be up by six.
What chance does prayer
have when I’m tired
and restless like this?

I want to say out loud
where I’m hurting,
and see if the bruises
respond.

Thanks and praise be to God,
if I can get off the couch.
I confess I’m not great
at confessing.

It’s a human thing.
Father.
The difficult part of being human
is sitting by the river

having an existential crisis
while drinking chai
out of an ironically
practical mason jar wrapped in a
blue kitchen towel.

Can you turn any sound into music?
What if we are parts of a game board?
Whose heart is called anger?

Stop rereading between the lines.
Maybe I was wrong.
The bridge stretches over the river.
The Domino factory splurts sugar.

What makes the medicine go down?
Who connects the synapses?
Another clear candy broken
by teeth and the party sparkles

stars. The night is filled
with Xx’s the Bronx is filled
with brownstones and smoke breaks
and a low hanging light.

My shoes take me to the 6 train,
skipping cracks in sidewalk.
The morning, then the daytime,
then the makeup, then the moon.

I’m walking home on Houston.
What does it mean when the
music makes me move?

Heartbreak on 2nd,
the movie moves on brick.
One defective machine
is not enough.
You need them all to be bad.

It is 8 am tomorrow.
Is it because they are cold?
Safe.
It is because they can’t hurt you.
Everything is fine.

Don’t get too worked up about it.
I saw it on the news.
Let the past be past.
Everything,
everything will be just fine.

the bottom falls out of the tea cart
spilling monopoly
twister
chess

kate is in california
learning about what
I wonder
tucking myself in
remembering that I forgot
to get a curtain rod again

stomach collapses
when I lay on my back
or think too hard about
what might happen later this year

all roads lead to Africa
every mother wonders

heaven is sometimes more of a scent
than a place

brick walls never ask to be covered
the houses that Jack built
the stories meant to keep a kid in bed

I will kick the sheets off
wake up again when the sky
is less brown more grey
when the tarp on my bike
is heavy with rain

and the window
still doesn’t have curtains

As the woman with fairy dust dusted their
heads and shoulders, knees and toes,
they closed their eyes, spun in circles, and made wishes.
Rebecca told me it would take weeks to scrub the
sparkles from their scalps.

I have a cupboard full of mugs and ball jars,
a cabinet full of chai. But at the end of the party,
after cutting the tea pot cake and oohing at
jewelry kits and gold fabric, drawing books
and ipod dancing dogs, I was given a favor

of my own to exclaim over. Myself, and four
perfect eight year old girls were handed pink
paper bags. We pulled out journals,
bags of Earl Grey and English Breakfast tea,
and much to my delight, a china tea cup with
the most delicate painted flowers.

Rebecca said she knew I’d like it as much as
the girls. She was right enough that I blushed,
wide eyed with wonder over the perfect combination
of every little thing a girl could want
on a snowy afternoon. I felt found out.

I did not wrestle when the girls did,
or do the worm dance that they
were trying over and over to do. I smiled,
all twenty-four years of play and dress-up
suddenly shy and aware of the distance

between us. But I listened to the girls talk in
serious tones about who knew more words to
Taylor Swift’s song. I smiled at their wild
play and snow fights after scones and sugary tea
and birthday cake. This was not so different

from what I did with my roommates. We make each
other tea and give each other gifts, and argue
about which book on the shelf is best. We cry and
and laugh and dance in the living room, and now

we have our first china tea cup to add to the cupboard.
Yesterday, buckled into the front seat,
asking about fondant and how to book a Tea Room for
a birthday party, I heard my voice and thought it strange.

I am in the space between daughter and mother,
my dreams are wild and bruised, my home is
a non-stop sleepover with friends, and yet,
I file taxes. I wear high heels and carry keys.

Funny how that pink bag held so many things
that haven’t changed. Rebecca sang along
with Kendall, Emma wrapped her friends in fabric,

sent them in the living room one by one,
her dream of fashion designer realized one
skirt at a time. I walked home in the deepest
drifts of snow, stopping at a dollar store to

wander through the aisles. I picked up
nail polish and put it back, thumbed through
kitchen towels and set them down. Finally,
I purchased dangling silver earrings.

When I got home, pink and plastic bag in hang,
I unlocked the front door with the keys in my
pocket, and put on a pot of water to boil.