after being not alone
phone calls are outdated these days—
lame, like reading books. i won’t praise him
just for answering, but i’ll admit there is
something about four AM company.
perhaps letting someone in at such a delicate
hour, or knowing we’ll make the sunrise
together. sunday, i only wandered town
meaninglessly, narrowly avoiding myself.
praise those unafraid to be lonely, girls
who command gossip wherever they go,
that boy with his time-traveling box. i saw
him enter a room, once, search for a place,
then leave, resigned. praise knowing we’re
better off alone than with the wrong ones.
freshmen gather about a table shallowly,
get drunk with the table-dwellers later.
we’re outgrowing it—giving ourselves away
for nothing in return. praise those who sit
still, never feel caved in by everywhere
they are. there’s only so far before reaching
new york city, and i could say, praise
new york city, though i’m reluctant.
i’ve never found company there. only here,
two nights ago. my wandering took me
nowhere new with someone new.
praise being something to someone.
Kardashian Conference
I talk about the Kardashians in conference
with Marie Howe—she gets it! wanting to be
something, anything? (someone) No,
someone in this world.
“But I’d miss just
going out for a coffee,” says Marie.
I tell her I agree. I don’t know
if I do.
observations
a crushed lantern fly crawling back to life.
one little spider moving to light. drunk boys
gripping ledges for leverage, the blue-eyed
one in my bed. blooming pink flower among
wilting ones. elderly couple crossing the walk,
holding hands and groceries. lantern fly wings
etched into ground. girls peering up
into the window. bee whizzing past my ear.
an occasional snore as he sleeps next to me,
heart palpitating against my back. red-hoodied boy,
his big box of budweiser cans. says “take one.”
“remember when you picked me up?”
my one-night-only lifts me. the roof gets closer.
glow-in-the-dark moon and stars on the ceiling.
“look.” squirrel digs the hole, buries the acorn.
woman laughs contagiously. angry voice across the wall:
“… at one in the morning, the party was still going.”
bartenders sing ‘all i want for christmas is you.’
on the six train, a tired yell: “i’m asking for help. why
are you all ignoring me?” that white boy dances awkwardly,
cigarette between his lips. small tornado of autumn leaves.
i walk home after dark; a deer waits by the door, stares,
unmoving. at the turkish restaurant, i explain myself:
“i’m just having fun.” rob says, “you don’t seem to believe it.”
Faith-Marie McHenry has been writing poetry for ten years to try and make sense of what she (still!) doesn’t understand—which is basically everything.