The Slower you Travel, the Further You’ll Get
Sometimes I want to feel solidarity with Silda
but instead I think
this is none of my business
and wish there was a station above the News called “Good News”
and instead of people asking what I do, they’d say “what are you looking for?”
At the gym I am superstitious about what number locker
I will put my lock on
I look into the window of Pole Dancing class
and wonder if I don’t sign up because I’m shy?
or because I’m married?
or because I’m married to a Rabbi?
If I could go back and offer advice to an earlier self,
I’d make it specific like
in a foreign country
during a war –
Something to account for every occasion.
The slower you travel the further you’ll get, a woman tells me,
for no reason, without turning around
and keeps walking towards something only she knows.
God— it comes back so easily. I meet someone
who grew up in the town
where I once sat
on an old sheet in the park
watching fireworks explode
over Zeppelin tracks
first with my parents, then with the boy
I loved his fine sandpaper
sideburns, lemon and cedar
chips, Italian ices melting on the sheet.
Pink and yellow sky trail of
hazy dust heat—
A pot falls to the floor
when I am just a baby,
I do not flinch.
My father realizes something—
fluid— trapped in my ears, I could not hear
at all, those first months
learned the world through gesture, shape—
my mother’s ripe lips moving close together,
then apart, into language I could not live without.