chi. like in energy.

not blue yet

we left the window open last night.
i’m curled up in sweat and hair.
she holds me to her naked chest.
the cold air enters through clacking blinds.
i wake up crying again before the day begins.
it is not blue yet.
it is not blue yet.
she says it’s not stupid to cry in the dark.

but at 15
i stood in front of the toilet
upstairs at the apartment on gramercy drive
shaking off the last drops of pee.

carol knocked on the door
looking for me,
looking for her babysitter,
and i yelled for her to come in.
she walked in slow
and stopped by the sink
trying to remember to ask me
when her mom would be home
as i turned to face her
and let my blue shorts fall to my ankles
down these legs that my cousin
teases me about for being so skinny
bird legs, she calls them, bird legs like your daddy’s.

she kept looking at my face
because she couldn’t there was nowhere else
in our space
my limp dick twitching near her face
a stupid grin under my own burning cheeks
and i said i didn’t know
i didn’t know when she was going to be home

she smiled
and walked out
just as slow
pulling the door shut in silence
and i pulled up my shorts
turned on the faucet
and washed my hands and face
with fragrant soap and hot water
wiping the rising steam from the mirror
to see this face
that was frozen there at that moment
this face that i still carry.

i stood in the shower this morning
with too much shampoo in my palm.
the upstairs neighbors are moving out.
my father’s soap smells red in the heat.
i am frightened of water.
i am frightened of water
and the power to cleanse.

crying crying
as she cradles me and tells me
it’s okay to cry in the dark.

but i am 16 now
and there is a rifle in my face
in the hallway of an apartment on
st. andrews and san marino
a burned out florescent bulb above
me shaped like a donut.
it is sunday and i think i’ll be late for church.
this man doesn’t want me to go.
this man doesn’t want me to go to god.
but my father
who once preached a sermon about friendship
using his stubby fingers to illustrate something important
sent me here today.
i’m supposed to help this man not kill his wife.
this man with the light eyes
this man who shows me how to let go of my body.

mom always said to keep my tummy covered from the cold
but last night we kicked off the blanket
and left the window open.
we like to leave the window open.
we like to lie on the couch
and listen for the screams that arouse us.
all i know is violence.
last night we parked the car
and walked into the street.
a car sped toward us.
we were all frozen as it swerved past us.
we left the street and walked in
and inside the apartment
i put the pot
and the bag of canned vegetables
on the floor by the dog
and we held each other,
crying with the lights on,
our lives pulled by each other’s hands
toward a moment more inevitable than death.