I sat on a metal folding chair with an old friend at the school play, the one who became an accomplished poet. “I understand now why celebrities marry other celebrities,” he said as we traded stories.
Tonight I am not a celebrity or a muse or even a poet, just a short, short-haired woman feeding old addictions as her children sleep.
“Collapsed narcissism ” and “mind object” and all the other Freudian terms I grew up regarding suspiciously line up like obedient soldiers: ready, aim, fire.
The white houses on this little street seem dull and dark, while my own bedroom light flickers a misguided signal and my smallest one who studies the planets informs me with authority that this is the only one
where people can breathe. For twenty minutes after hours in front of a computer screen, I choked on my own breath, hugging the bathroom sink.
The stubborn disappearance of a book, a pair of glasses I used to know just where to find.