the streets of my old neighborhood

Tonight I took myself out
and had a vegan mocha cupcake
for dinner.

And then I walked myself home in the dark.
It was a perfect evening
in many ways.

I walked the streets of my old neighborhood
and passed that old house with the cluttered porch.
There are still more chairs
than inhabitants.
It makes me smile.

There is something healing
in putting one foot
in front
of the other.

But I must say
there is a deep ache within me
for that sacred space
where I can exhale
and know I belong.

For now
I will keep walking.

To Remember

To remember is to imagine at a particular moment,
a particular place,
and perhaps
nothing more.

My longitude and latitude may predict hypercognition of grief, anger, betrayal,
the bottomless pit in my left ventricle draining my blood
when my mind conjures up his face,
or his,
or his.

Slovenliness and the historical record join hands to make me into
an archaeologist.
Unearth from a messy drawer
a picture frame with pressed dried flowers
collected from the mountains of Colorado
labeled with genus and species

My nose recalls with ease what my mind does not.
The teasing scent of blue detergent
the comfort of a warm burial in a pile of freshly laundered white shirts
next to someone who adored me

Those milliseconds challenge the veracity of my narratives
that prioritize their vile ways.
How much easier it is when the truth of your disregard for me
does not confront the Truth
of the complexity of human interactions.
The Truth we shall never know.

That I too am remembered
am imagined
am measured by moods
by meaning
by a need to make sense of this life
cannot stop my imperfect memories

so maybe it is better to have none.


--Anita
inspired by Julian Barnes "The Sense of an Ending"

stranger

You are a stranger, even though
I am sleeping at your side, your arm resting on my hip
pulling me closer.
We are breathing in step, hearts aligned, fingers crossed
but even now, I feel so far away.
I am a girl at the bottom of a well, staring up at the sky.
I want you to know that I’m here
trapped in the darkness
but my voice is quiet. It does not carry so well.
I feel like I’m screaming, but I know it's just in my head,
in the way I look at you and hope to see you looking back,
in those ambiguous comments that pass by you like signs to places you have no intention on going.
I need you to ask--
to look down into the well--
to see me.
I don’t want you to join me,
to save me.
No.
Just to recognize that I’m down here
and not just the warm body at your side.