plus I made smashed potatoes with fresh chives and rosemary. the matzoh balls are made with spelt matzoh and coconut oil and the charoset has organic diced sour cherries in it. in honor of tradition, i’ve cleaned the house of (some) crumbs. and i’ll be very, very hungry by the time we eat (it’s not passover unless you’re starved by the process!). happy first night of passover/and happy easter on sunday/& happy springtime coming in/& a very happy full moon to us & plants. amen.
Max is also a Pisces
He hands me the astrology book while reading my “Lovepoem” out loud
My photograph is on the refrigerator
This is my first time at their apartment and my photograph is on the wall
At midnight a blonde girl lights my sparkler after two minutes of matches
Sam in her black turtleneck with a small cup of water and grooving
Kathryn dancing with her hair
Mallory on the couch getting the scoop
In Andrew’s room the bed is stripped
Max makes coffee and the room is mugged
No taxis in all of Brooklyn, no taxis in all of New York
After 4am I’m not especially human
Math and sleep are both about the numbers
This year, again, is all about the words
The river was swollen. There were rocks
covered completely by water. We three stood
by the water. It was too cold for smells.
There is nothing so serious as each instant
occurring right after the last. Only this. Then
this. We unribbon. We peeled back, pulled open.
And from our mouths: sets of words. Laughs
of white breath. The story of a star. We are anything,
except that we are only this: this single minute.
One truth after another. My hands were in
my pockets. The river licked at rocks. All
that liquid, all that thirst. The temperature took
away my toes. I see some people twice a year.
There is a fullness to the sky, an emptiness.
Brunch Sonnet 2
I hear you’re writing brunch poems again,
says Eoin. That’s very dangerous for me. He knows
anything he says or does may be used against him
in a poem. Last night I gave ten dollars to one person,
tonight to another. I spend my money on whiskey
and pens and paper goods and friends. They pay me
back. I wear my hair to the side and listen to Camus:
Today we are always as ready to judge as we are
to fornicate. It’s so easy coming home, yelling over
girls I learned to drink with, talking to boys I kissed
and afterward befriended. I get called by my initials
and thrown up into the air by someone who still
walks like a football player. We can’t escape ourselves,
not that we would want to. Not this holiday at least.
this year, I’ll call them
The Someday Brunch Sonnets
(poems of 14 lines
occurring some days
& written in New York
during the last days of 2011
& the first days of 2012)
Brunch Sonnet 1
On the Hudson line, the Hudson’s misty white
and Harlem’s moistened bricks are held in color
by the rain. Years ago, I watched an airplane puff
a message to a lover from a lover but missed the name
when the train went underground. Usually I’m anxious
for the dark of tunnel, a sign that city life is close, all
the art and outfits waiting. This year it’s Christmas
and de Kooning, who painted roads and months on canvases
the size of my apartment. I won’t tell you that I saw
the Merritt in his painting called the Merritt Parkway,
but the expression of the tiny patch of olive green
that beamed itself in angles from a corner was enough
to tell me that he lived here once and thought himself
a minor sight in comparison to all the trees.
on the subject of grading and packing and goodbying to everyone and gathering presents and cleaning the house and reviewing the whole year:
(via this isn’t happiness)
also, another truth, brought to you by britt appleton:
and I’m going to see my family so soon!!!!!!