NaPoWriMo #1

Sunday, April 01, 2018

Ready for My Close Up

What if I could wake up changed, no longer seized
with itinerant desire, settled and shining in place?

But that isn’t how it works.

Before my son was born, I tried to leave his father—I traveled by subway to my preferred burrow—borough, I meant—and looked at the small apartment of the lady poet.  At that point, she was me ten years  earlier—burrowed in place in a Jeannie room, books edging her bottle, a cat with a Latin American name, about to leap off into a new life with new city busses. 

I couldn’t face what felt like burrowing back into a cocoon I should have already sprung from.  I slid back into relationship, that curious dyad, more square feet for the trouble, before that other curious dyad of mother and infant.  All the burrows. 

I write to you from the 1920s bungalow of a milliner.  Millenial, I mean.  Shining silver threads sprout from my head and light the way forward.  A beacon.  Monstrous.  The aging sister, ill-fitting her skin. 

There must be an acronym for this. 

I was no beauty in my Warhol screen test at the Pittsburgh museum.  My shadow face, my burrows.  Too much luggage.  Furrows.  Muted despair.  As per usual.

My writer-mother-sad girl compatriot hovered behind the lights and caught me bright eyed, head tilted up, blown out and beautiful.  Silent film star, she said.  To be seen as the intermittent knockout I used to be.  That’s all I ask of my melancholy compatriots. 

All of this circling around the point
my secret shame, my
pleasure, my 

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