Timeliness

I am the girl who missed the train
and ran for the bus, breathless
just as it was leaving
with its passengers arranged comfortably
in neatly coupled seats.

I am the girl who left the station too late
to catch the train
because she hadn't checked the over-sized,
imposing sign of Arrivals and Departures,
deciding instead that Her Best Guess
would be the most romantic—
and thus important—
evidence of fact.

And I am the girl who did not look back
as the train roared on and the bus blew by
because something in her dim heart understood
that the train's momentum could not be slowed,
that the bus was destined for other roads
and that if things were really meant to be different,
Divinity would have entered.

Now due to my recent series of transportation
failures I have opted to walk in favor
of being whisked swiftly underground
or holding my breath above rickety wheels
while shuttling along these crooked
brick-lined streets.

The city lights, as guideposts, are steady.
At every intersection I am met
by the clear, familiar flashing
of artless traffic signals.
And walking, in its purest,
most pleasing form
isn't concerned with waiting
or schedules.

And yet,
although you can change what you chase,
you can rarely control what follows:

because I am the girl
you continue to pass
when you aren't looking out your window.

.

Gatto

He told me, casually, while lying on my couch
(his eyes dark and round as nectarine pits, fingers
like asparagus—firm, yet steamed—legs the laziest
blonde spaghetti to've been thrown against the wall)—
"You are like a cat." I stopped tugging at the edges
of the cushions, intrigued—a simile? I'm insatiable.
Pretend I'm blind and illustrate it, please.

"When you aren't curled up in sunlight you're
clawing to leave. Sometimes I can't tell
if you're purring or shrieking.
You're a domesticated cat who will not stop
hunting yet your bowl has never been empty."

That night, I dreamt about cats.
I dreamt about cats yawning and cats
bolting from open doorways.
I dreamt about cats with their ears being
scratched and cats getting smooshed
beneath tires.

And in the dream I heard the voice
of one of my dead relatives:
"Dogs love people. Cats love places."

I woke up remembering the couch, the day.
I remembered his presence in the room,
how his words pressed on like a rolling
pin; how it had felt enchanting,
like I was in another country—
a country littered with silos and tulips
consuming entire meadows, in a country
I'd never been to.

And because I've never really
traveled (my family always went camping)
I find the idea of exploration
terrifying

so that when I wander,
I sink, and dart
and when I love, I drift

maniacally shifting between
taking photograph after photograph
and then—where's my parachute?—
abandoning.

(You are the loveliest foreign language
and I need a Romance to Amanda dictionary.)

.

The Same Room Twice

I once read that you can't walk into
the same room twice.

Which could be a comment
on a room's lighting,
how it is constantly changing:
how candlelight burns dimly,
how moonlight glows softly;
how sunlight, in the afternoon
captures dust in phosphorescent
vacuums, sending yellow-hued chute
after chute spiraling inward from the windows.

But what if there aren't any windows?
What if a room is devoid of light?
(Why can't a dark room
be a dark room, twice?)

It must be that the meaning has more to do
with the Gravity a room can occupy.
With the presence, or removal of
a mood, or memory.

(In the rooms that I've reentered here
I've heard familiar voices echoing
where bodies can't be traced.
I've seen familiar shadows struggling
to maintain their shapes; most walls
still stand with infallible weight
and in rooms, which at one time
where hardest to leave,
the floorboards still tend
to speak.

And yet, I have found
to my bittersweet relief—
these rooms have changed.)

.