Sometimes light travels at the speed of the heart.

Poetry

# Moments Away



of the six passed around,

 four of my wine glasses

 broke. three of them had

 wine in them which spilled

across the floor staining the

soles of high heels.



the husbands and wives in

 nicer apartments a few blocks

 down have wine for tonight,

wine for tomorrow, and a

couple thousand dollar bottle

they’re saving for a

 special occasion.



it’s a shame all their

special occasions

have passed.



the second wine glass shattered

outside on the street while

T stood and dragged on a cigarette—

she wears boots, bandanas and

bandage skirts in the same week,

has a fragile face, a

frail frame about the height

of mary tyler moore.



a garment with one stain

is soon to become a painting shirt,

and glass with one scratch

is soon to be shattered—



i broke the fourth glass

slowly after all but one of

the women had left. B slept

while i leaned over the kitchen

counter and tapped the corner

of the glass over a towel like

you might crack an egg over a bowl.



i witnessed the first fracture, the

second, on and on until a

stem was left in my hand and i

used it to poke around at shards

of glass.



moments away, they say.



stay tuned: we’re moments away.



it means something different

when you’re moments away

in the future.

## To Her Future Kids



your mother, when she was in college, used to say “i don’t know” a lot, even though she knew a lot, and she had the most charming smile every time i told her, “start knowing.”



she once worked as an usher at a theatre where the actors and actresses would attend, she wore all black on those nights and struck fear into the famous.



she was the most beautiful woman in madison square park when she’d meet me for lunch there, all the men looked at her when they walked by, and i held her hand when we walked away.



she stood with the authority of a diplomat and the authenticity of a farmer next to me in washington square, with a sweet gaze, she made me feel proud just to sit under streetlights with her.



your mother was once here, in this young man’s shoebox, she came here the first night we met for excitement, and kept coming back, even if only for a space to read books for those silly college classes.



she once kissed me on the cheek and looked at me like she loved me, and i think she did, your mother loved me half as much as she loves you, and it fulfilled my heart.



that was before life started telling her all those things she didn’t know, that my apartment was just a pit stop, only a brief checkpoint in her youth, a small learning experience before she became who she is to you:



one of the only people in the story of your life who will never cease to love you.