November 12, 2012

To and for blood, brother: 

A letter to a letter

(excerpt from For the Birds Trapped in Airports


Correct me if I’m wrong, but I feel that we

learned at such a rapid rate this week, no?

Our selves, our shelves, lives,

our friends, pasts,

our futures, fears.

I learned about the word “our” and it’s importance

in being written, and sometimes,

it’s importance of being not written.

Not forgotten, but not written.

Not expressed for the sake for others,

but still, of course,

embedded into my steps and my words.

Of course!

A part of both my courage and my anxieties,

maybe our strength reveals itself in pauses.

Absent of fulfilled expectations,

we respond with silence.

Not with angst or irreverence,

but because we aren’t yet ready to answer

so  l e g i b l y.

At the moment

it’s too simple to know

but too complicated to state:

"I’m learning how"

by trying.

So there exists this contrast

that I know about…

Not good, not bad,

but different.

Where their confusions

say so strongly

that we’re wrong,

or off.

And it does plunge

into my chest

of uncertainties.

But how can I get them

to understand my,

or your, definition

of “our”?

And then I saw it

like you can always see it

in erased chalk drawings.

You know,

it’s like when your cut

has found its way to your sleeve,

and with licking your finger

you resort to desperate rubs

to make the stain disappear

and the only part that changes,


is everyone knows

you were trying to hide it.

That maybe it’s not about

squeezing moments

into a quantifying gesture.

For them - for those,

changing definitions

of “ours.”

I watched this bad movie once

and heard something good.

"Just because

something doesn’t last,

doesn’t mean it isn’t perfect.”

And I see us -

all of us,

dancing, singing -

so scared,

that we’ll change

in our steps and twirls,

not hitting notes

"the way we used to,"

and as we dip,

they will turn

their backs

to our new moves.

But they never caught,

and we never waited

for their turns,

nor our falls.

Our “ours” will be ours,

with, or without,

the dance or song.

In the mean time,

we choose who we bleed for.

That, forever,

will be “ours,”

and it will

be perfect.