The ride down Nostrand,
colored with the last few hours
of the seventy-degree day
Is easy.
88.3 fills your car, floats up
And out your front windows.
People walk too close to cars flying by
Not bothered…
Gold drips into your Tacoma and on faded storefront signs
“jesus” used to “save”
But the cross’s broken
Or rotted
Or peeling now…
Sinatra,
or Chet Baker
plays on the stereo
In the living room.
I am hunched over the corner section of the countertop,
A glass of red wine
My father keeps trying to refill
Between my fingertips.
My mother is either talking to me
Or on the phone with my grandmother
Or my aunt.
Now that I’m away,
My presence at home is something special.
She usually makes fish
Or roasts a chicken.
Watching her move
Across the kitchen floor,
As if the things she pulls out of the fridge,
The stories she tells about the week,
And how she opens a can
Of crushed tomatoes,
Phone in ear,
Were so natural
She doesn’t have to stop
To consider them.
I think,
Looking at her
Doing what other mothers,
Fathers,
Sons,
And daughters do;
Have always done,
That there can’t be anyone else
Like the woman in front of me.
The garlic is cooking with sundried tomatoes I got
Probably
Too long ago.
There’s no sign of mold yet, so I throw them in
Sizzling
As they meet the olive oil coating the pan.
The day and the week
And month.
Has been hard.
I haven’t felt like this since the doctor said I had mono
About two years ago….
On this Wednesday night, Billie sings her blues
And I drink the rest of my wine from yesterday afternoon
Happy to slice a lemon,
Sit back
And study the flood light painting
our white kitchen walls.
10:36 AM and a morning touched with the grey of anticipation.
The sky knows that winter is pushing through already,
Clouds both soft and heavy hide the sun;
Gold and faintly coloring the white walls in the kitchen.
I can’t make eggs in the morning without thinking of you...
Standing in this dorm kitchen,
Floor dirty but I still don’t wear shoes,
I decide the silence is too heavy for the moment
And turn on music that you showed me, about two years ago now.
That apartment on Rogers never leaves me.
Making our way through the stack of shit occupying the countertops,
You’d crack eggs over a hot pan
And I’d stand near the doorway or window just watching you,
A little insecure of my skin in new daylight.
Your tattoos were new to me then
And your hair hit your shoulder but you put it back.
This place felt so far away…. I liked it.
I never felt lost standing next to you.
You always feel so familiar
and still, so far.
Now,
the music’s not too loud
and the eggs are done cooking.