(An Ode to Quarantine and Lyn Hejinian)
Suburbia was my first love. Walking around the neighborhood, I worship the traces of memory left. Four flights of stairs and a Twin XL mattress. In a year, blank space returns to blank space. I walk under buildings spiraling inwards from all directions. Monochromatic. I dream of highlighter pollen. Someone else must know your views, and someone else and someone else. How could you walk across campus with no headphones? In the wilderness, we peek out the tent when mom yells from the house. Childhood is thirty years and more if I want. There’s a box under my bed I won’t open. The candy will go stale and the sweater will gather dust. I hate it when people tell me they love me on the radio. Pushed back my bangs, he said, I can’t see your face. We count together all the days I want you. Jazz sounds better on vinyl (except sometimes). Me enamoré de mi vida el viernes trece. I miss I miss I miss. Now I’ll look back on an accidental graze in the hallway or a smile in Austin traffic or eye contact with my first school friend or a hug or a kiss and sigh. You remember everything uncertain.