Chapters (58)

since 1929. The city grinds

its molars at night, carefully mined

explosions boring cavities beneath

Manhattan, while other lines

ride all hours in yellow light, gliding

to stops at the zebra-painted beam

halfway down each platform,

conductor always pointing up, as if

to say, yes, you are here.

The Heat

At night its

warble strummed to

silence

the crabgrass

blue, then green,

then black,

the branches relax and

gently scratch the screen like

a dark-haired woman

who years later would

pluck it so that she

could be let in.

TWO

Still Life

From after dark

until early morning,

at the kitchen

table, writing

patient notes,

the radio turned low:

Leonard with HIV,

whose steroids didn’t

work; the dying mother

of a famous rock star,

alone in her Vacaville villa

bemedaled in memorabilia,

the son’s biggest fan.

Her own disease

lying in wait.

Then, as we slept,

it crept to her shoulder,

capped her pen, locked

her files, and

clicked off the music.

Mail

We wrote one another a lot

those days, long winding

letters that crossed a country, in which

I asked if she knew my gratitude;

her replies so generous

it’s only now I realize

my gratitude wasn’t gratitude

but another request.

On Generosity

She gave so easily

we didn’t know acceptance

was training us

to give back

when you opened a door

she went through first, because

the tide goes both ways.

Reherseal

Rehearsal

The hardwood is dusty, whorled from last night’s dance,

fifteen of us lie starfished around the gym, legs bent

this way, then again, beneath dome lights caged

in their own protection, turned on half an hour ago,

flickering and blinking as if a drill, while below,

I’m having a thought about a thought,

that years from this moment I’ll remember it:

lights, ceiling, handprints on the backboard —

of all topographies, this is one I hoard.

Allowances

I gave myself excuses.

This is for my pain —

and this, and this.

Terrible things.

Pain. My pain.

All of it

so I could

get on a train

twice a month

to witness yours.

The Money

The money, he asks, haven’t you

thought about the money?

We’re feeding her

apple sauce and yogurt.

Days later, alone on the East River

I say aloud to myself:

I don’t have a fucking wallet in my heart

to put the fucking money in.

The Last

Stars beat back your kindness,

night blot the sun;

for days we counted her breaths —

and then there was only one.

Tattoo

Driving around

L.A., top down,

my brother

and I discussing how

to remember when

this yellow light

tells you to forget

and to turn around

to do something

else, just stop

being you and

become another.

We decide

on a tattoo. At

first it’s not big,

it’d be discreet,

the kind you notice

like the glint of