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Fear of Brooklyn and lapses in language

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I was anxious about returning home for winter break far in advance, and my fears have been mostly confirmed . Between October and December I only came to Brooklyn twice, the first time being for my mother’s double mastectomy . That week was full of whirlwind pain and strife for her and worry for me, mult iplied by the brutal grief I was experiencing over the end of my relationship. The second time was for thanksgiving, during which I was in the most emotionally run-down state I have been in recent memory. The idea of coming to the city again was just gutting. I ’m not sure how to characterize my feelings about home right now , because I am trying to be well—to take walks, be around friends, and write every day —but I don’t feel loved in Brooklyn. I feel afraid and purposeless. I am walking into a fresh hurt all over again by returning here after months of virtual isolation. The walls of my childhood bedroom are haunting and everything I own seems to brush up on sore places ins...
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Two Drafts on the Library

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Here are two things I've written recently with a shared theme (working in the library). I think being on break, and therefore distant, from this consistent and important piece of my life has made me want to put some words down about it. -- I sit behind the library’s service desk in Circulation, the most visible of its stratified segments. The desk is a rectangle of marble and wood that encloses us alongside shelves of returned books and items needing repair, textbooks, electronics for loan, and other materials tucked in drawers or hanging on hooks. The working area is a strip of floor space just behind the three Circulation desktops that snakes toward my right where a similar setup exists for the Reference department. Then, the zone banks 90 degrees and extends to the back wall of the enclosure, forming the Tech desk. In the early morning, the front of the library is quiet. A student or a pair of students will pad in without looking our way, carrying with them a slight swish of fab...
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Poem from a day with Tess

After a strange half - year I’m out , in late Decembe r   Talking about it   A n d if not solid reality is touchable   Soft but firming slow I know that bird and this pond side nook   Kind familiar untethered , here,   But admit I can’t live in the city It feels like a traitorous thing   Born, loved, and mothered of someplace   To scheme your de-rooting for new soilscapes   Still seated with a sweet friend from home .  
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