The midget
on 13th street
tries to put her briefcase on the ledge.
Her arms hurt from reaching.
She says to herself:
“this world just doesn’t fit me.”
In Mt. Pleasant,
Monica finds a familiar looking dog
dragging his tail
and himself.
He’s all alone.
Upstairs an apartment is empty,
the classic ‘tv blaring and lights on.’
Monica pets the dog.
They try to find his owner
and don’t even notice
the ambulance barreling by
and can’t hear the gunshots
still ringing in the dog’s ears.
Two days later
tears travel down their
cheeks, neck-
the path of a lover’s tongue-
down their breaking hearts,
at a candlelight vigil
for the dog’s owner.
I’m spinning in a jet-lagged fog,
screaming in a war-fatigued frenzy
at the peace march
on Constitution Avenue.
Reminded by constant death.
Been attacked by monkeys and wild horses
in September
and by your memories,
when your passing should have already passed me.
What I need,
is freedom from loving you-
I just don’t got the grace anymore.
I’d like to believe
your love for me was larger
than your body
could contain
and in my grief
I shouldn’t limit it
to the confines of the body.
But you’ve set me spinning.
And I just can’t stop,
lookin’ north and south
east and west
good and bad,
I’m lookin’ in circles
lookin’ for home
between the Afghan chaddar on my head
and the skirts on my legs.
This was the year that I missed having my garden,
missed my marigolds,
missed my 2-feet high basil,
missed my cherry tomatoes,
missed a part of myself
which never took.
I remember the midget,
and philosophize:
this world just doesn’t fit me,
this skin just doesn’t fit me.
I’m too big for my heart.