on a couch at midnight.

I spread the sheet out
build my fort for the night,
for the week.
I cuddle under my insecurities,
heavy enough to keep
me shivering through the dark.

Every night at two am
the man in the apartment above mine
sings, his voice muffled through the
pipes and plaster of nyc.
Its been like this for a year.
I drift off to
The sound of resolve
Or is it sorrow?

english teachers.

They come and go
As they wish.

First she walked in with her gong
Shocked us all into respect
or was it awe for the
way she maneuvered
her way around a classroom
full of hearts young enough
to shatter
but full enough to set off
like a gas range left alone.
She set the match to our fumes.
But then she packed up her gong,
traded it in for a cross and a staff
she now leads a flock in spokane.

She walked in like lolz,
omg obvi I'm preggos.
She took the english language
ripped it to shreds in her hands
wrote posts about us
sheltered, naive, ignorant.
Maybe we wouldn't be,
if you had taught us.
We never needed another
babysitter.

She was a backup,
mid year, post trauma.
Regimented essays
drawn out for months,
each indent a cave worth
exploring. There is no beauty
in the way you bore the
words to death.

She walked into a room
where she could provide nothing
but disappointment.
Reprinted prompts
recycled essays
nothing in my mind will ever be new.

You haven't come yet.
I have resigned myself to looking for you.
I'm not sure if you have a gong
or your own set of matches.
But my fingers crave readjustment,
my mind demands something more.

I turned seventeen on a subway.

I turned 17 on a subway
as the tracks clatter beneath me
and I crawl closer to
home without moving an
inch.
The species of new york
sleep and listen to their ipods beside me.
Nothing reminds me of the monotony
of routine quite like the subway
commute.
People exist in their minds as their
bodies occupy the germ ridden seats
the rats scurry as if knowing
there is no life here.

I hope the way you turn the clock
at midnight on the day you
were born
seventeen years later
doesn't cast a shadow
on the coming year.

If only.

Preface: this piece was inspired by the Hevria post: http://hevria.com/matthue/your-frei-reflection/

As my day walks by me, unaware of my demands, I sometimes wonder what it would be like...if. Occasionally an 'only' tagged on the end: if only.
If only my skirts were pants and my shirts had hems that were a little more forgiving. If only my skin could feel the brush of people against me as we pulsed in a rave, in a club, in a bar. Anywhere "cool", anywhere but here.
But then I feel the pulse of my heart in my wrist as I tug my sleeve with my hand. I feel the whisper of my soul as I turn the pages of the sefer.
And more than any of these feelings, I know. I get it.
So yes, sometimes my mind thinks back on the moment that shlucha stopped my mother in the store because of her hebrew, the kids in the cart unaware of the shift that was beginning.
But, I know that if I wore tank tops and shorts, I wouldn't have enough material to keep my heart from falling out.

On a bus to the city.

They say that in an accident
most of the damage is done
by the slamming of our organs
against the skeleton.
When the velocity inside of us
is too great.
When the very frame meant to hold us in
holds a little too tightly.
I guess thats how I feel now,
in a bus
rolling towards the pieces of me
that I left with people, in places.
In the moments that pulse as a memory.

I feel my skeleton pushing forward
until it catches up with my heart
beating as it pushes its way
back inside.

Live in it.

We're so much more.
we're so much more than
the eight to five.
The rigemented schedule
of nothings until the bell
rings and you are scurried
to the next bout of even less
Nothing.
We are so much more than
answers to questions
on dotted lines
checked, slashed
smart, not so much.
but.
we are so much more than
Complaints.
more than living outside of
where life finds you
we are more than the wishes of
Future.
Then.
If only.
our lives balance on the thread of
a distant reality.
Our bodies sieze at the thought
of what could be ours.
Let our heads rest on our shoulders
Not teeter on the idea of
who we might
Be.
Who we could become.
we are here.
we are now.
let's make it Fabulous.

The poem I didn't want to post.

They saw it there
Spilling
The way their juicebox sometimes would
When the straw poked through
The plastic
No
No
No.
My mothers blood is not
Cheap like juice
It is bitter and stings
As it makes its descent
Too early
Too early
Too early
Your blade does not get
Sharper
With every slice against the skin
Of those who dont deserve it.
The spear contacts one
But a million hearts
Whimper too.