May 14th, 2014

You never write poems about me. She said. I don't like essays. Think of it as a paper then. She squints her eyes and barely looks at me, letting me know she does not think I am funny. What is funny says Monica from the other part of the room after I tell her I wrote about her in the poem from yesterday is that he did drive by in the afternoon and I didn't have the baby wrapped up, so he saw his foot. The worst part of the dream two nights ago was that I didn't see his face
because he had none. He was just a presence and a voice telling me over and over again that no, no. He could not forgive me. But you are hurting everyone I said and he said he didn't care. I woke feeling like something had burrowed into me in the dark and then exited, leaving a yawning space that wanted to be filled. But, what I woke to in the real world was the certainty of a birds calling out the rising sun and the fact that there was nothing to be forgiven for. I dressed by the window, repeating these truths, rehearsing them and feeling the way they felt with my tongue, when suddenly I saw on the window what must have been there all along, since I've moved in, a heart drawn in the dust by someone's finger that said "K + G". So, so, there is love. When I tell my students this, they stare and say finally so you don't clean your windows. No. I don't. And the light still comes in. No matter what blocks it, it still finds an avenue.