Rec
šļø
I have this historical tendency where the second I get the sudden unmistakable feeling that a home is no longer forever, I stop tending to it. Dirty clothes pile up, the washed laundry sits unfolded, clutter accumulates, and I no longer wish to decorate. I disengage because my future is no longer tethered to this place; Iām being pulled forward from elsewhere and itās only a matter of time.
I apologize for my inactivity, my malaise; I tell them that Iām going through a rough time and struggling to fully function. Iām feeling burnt out after years treading water with a cinderblock tied to my ankle and I worry day and night about external forces beyond my control that threaten to sink us both. They tell me thereās always an excuse; that Iām perpetually miserable and dissatisfied; that I only care about myself.
Of course, Iām not the only person living in this house. Theyāve long since absconded from their share of the duty to this space we inhabit together, and yet Iām the one who is accused of giving up.
Every week for a decade, Iāve been matching their socks into pairs, rolling up their underwear, and promptly hanging up their clothing fresh out of the dryer to prevent wrinkles from setting ināand they didnāt even notice. They told me they were perfectly happy rummaging through the laundry basket every day.
Sometimes they will wash my clothesādelicates tossed in with T-shirts, jeans thrown in the dryer and tumbled until they shrinkābut nobody has ever put away my laundry but me.
I apologize for my inactivity, my malaise; I tell them that Iām going through a rough time and struggling to fully function. Iām feeling burnt out after years treading water with a cinderblock tied to my ankle and I worry day and night about external forces beyond my control that threaten to sink us both. They tell me thereās always an excuse; that Iām perpetually miserable and dissatisfied; that I only care about myself.
Of course, Iām not the only person living in this house. Theyāve long since absconded from their share of the duty to this space we inhabit together, and yet Iām the one who is accused of giving up.
Every week for a decade, Iāve been matching their socks into pairs, rolling up their underwear, and promptly hanging up their clothing fresh out of the dryer to prevent wrinkles from setting ināand they didnāt even notice. They told me they were perfectly happy rummaging through the laundry basket every day.
Sometimes they will wash my clothesādelicates tossed in with T-shirts, jeans thrown in the dryer and tumbled until they shrinkābut nobody has ever put away my laundry but me.
Feb 21, 2025
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Rec
The sharp scent of rain tumbles clumsily in as you tease window-hinges wider with the pads of your fingers. A siren trails close behind, uninvited, sears your eardrums, dies off down the block.
Your neighbors are arguing again. Laundry, loans, lack of commitmentā¦ like yesterday, like the day before.
You think it would be suffocating to wrap yourself up in someone elseās sheets.Ā
Itās five oāclock. Leaning against the sill and flicking the radio dial with one recently manicured nail, you tune into the local news. Roaring wall of static, then calm conversation between two anchors bubbling up through an old set of Panasonic loudspeakers.
You are feeling incomplete today, like yesterday, like the day before.
Rigatoni boils in the kitchen. You check the leftmost cabinet and find strawberry jam, unopened. You check the cupboard and look over a tub of tahini, a collection of canned soup, and a stack of pie tins. You check the counter, behind the cutlery. Finally, you check the fridge, ducking down to see only your own brown-eyed reflection in one last ā now empty ā jar of Prego. Your shoulders dip.
You slip on white sneakers, not-so-white-as-they-once-were. Why did you try to paint the front door? It is peeling now, ugly like a fledgling losing young feathers. Flecks of buttery yellow dapple paisley carpeting.
The great outdoors wait for you at the bottom of a cramped stairwell with twin light fixtures, both broken.
A sky like an old sweater is draped above Brooklyn, ready to wring itself out again at any moment.
Once around the block, rubber soles brushing damp cement, you walk briskly. At first you fling yourself against the humidity, then become self-conscious and adopt a slower pace as you near the corner store.
Two dollars, sixty cents. Like last week, like the week before.Ā
You and I, we are looking down at our phones and stumble into each other, halfway home.
It is no oneās fault.
You recognize me from somewhere, you say, and feel like a bad person for lying. You have never seen me before in your life. I ask for your number.
That night you eat too quickly, knowing youāll wish youād saved some leftovers.
I come over once, then again.
We go out for dinner at tacky restaurants, where art deco posters from the nineteen-thirties have pinned themselves up in scattered flocks across worn-out drywall and the menu is printed with strange font on laminated placemats. The appetizer sample photos are unnerving; the bruschetta cowers like a scared animal awash in excessive camera flash. I make a joke about it, and you laugh.
We order dishes to share. The food is always better than I expected, but not quite as good as you wanted it to be.
You donāt mind.
We talk for hours.
We agree, ballpoint pens are better.
I hold you, and the ten p.m. bus pulls you out of my arms and through the dusky streets, past crowds and utility poles.
I hold you, and we rhyme our steps. Burgundy is around us in the leaves and in the dirt. You wear a coat I gave you.
I hold you, and we swat flies out on your porch. The days are getting shorter.
I hold you, and we watch blu-ray CDs you found on sale. Soft light from the flatscreen plays across your face as you fall asleep. I keep the movie on a little longer.
I hold you. In December, we bring a blanket to Long Island and listen to the sound of snow falling on the dunes.
You call in sick for work too often.
I hold you, and you know my callouses well.
We share the same sheets; we are wrapped up in each other.
I hold you, and kiss your hair.
You smell like candied oranges.
The afternoons eat away at one another. Dishes pile like uneven layer-cakes in your kitchen sink, crested with suds.
You say you feel uninspired.
Now we argue about laundry, and the sounds of your unhappy apartment are heard through half-open windows.Ā
You shout, eyebrows furrowed like the pages of a book. A white plate soars from the grip of a trembling hand, misses an upturned chin, and interrupts us with its shattering.
This time, itās different.
Sleep escapes us ātil the sun is already planted on the easternmost rooftop.
I hurt you the way I learned to, and stay awhile, but donāt know why I stay.
We sink into sweet, heavy things: the saxophone in āCharcoal Babyā, shared creamsicles on hot Saturday evenings.
I see you less and less, and remember less and less of you.
Will I see you next week?
Yes, if you text me.
You forget,
just like weād both hoped.
Your neighbors are arguing again. Laundry, loans, lack of commitmentā¦ like yesterday, like the day before.
You think it would be suffocating to wrap yourself up in someone elseās sheets.Ā
Itās five oāclock. Leaning against the sill and flicking the radio dial with one recently manicured nail, you tune into the local news. Roaring wall of static, then calm conversation between two anchors bubbling up through an old set of Panasonic loudspeakers.
You are feeling incomplete today, like yesterday, like the day before.
Rigatoni boils in the kitchen. You check the leftmost cabinet and find strawberry jam, unopened. You check the cupboard and look over a tub of tahini, a collection of canned soup, and a stack of pie tins. You check the counter, behind the cutlery. Finally, you check the fridge, ducking down to see only your own brown-eyed reflection in one last ā now empty ā jar of Prego. Your shoulders dip.
You slip on white sneakers, not-so-white-as-they-once-were. Why did you try to paint the front door? It is peeling now, ugly like a fledgling losing young feathers. Flecks of buttery yellow dapple paisley carpeting.
The great outdoors wait for you at the bottom of a cramped stairwell with twin light fixtures, both broken.
A sky like an old sweater is draped above Brooklyn, ready to wring itself out again at any moment.
Once around the block, rubber soles brushing damp cement, you walk briskly. At first you fling yourself against the humidity, then become self-conscious and adopt a slower pace as you near the corner store.
Two dollars, sixty cents. Like last week, like the week before.Ā
You and I, we are looking down at our phones and stumble into each other, halfway home.
It is no oneās fault.
You recognize me from somewhere, you say, and feel like a bad person for lying. You have never seen me before in your life. I ask for your number.
That night you eat too quickly, knowing youāll wish youād saved some leftovers.
I come over once, then again.
We go out for dinner at tacky restaurants, where art deco posters from the nineteen-thirties have pinned themselves up in scattered flocks across worn-out drywall and the menu is printed with strange font on laminated placemats. The appetizer sample photos are unnerving; the bruschetta cowers like a scared animal awash in excessive camera flash. I make a joke about it, and you laugh.
We order dishes to share. The food is always better than I expected, but not quite as good as you wanted it to be.
You donāt mind.
We talk for hours.
We agree, ballpoint pens are better.
I hold you, and the ten p.m. bus pulls you out of my arms and through the dusky streets, past crowds and utility poles.
I hold you, and we rhyme our steps. Burgundy is around us in the leaves and in the dirt. You wear a coat I gave you.
I hold you, and we swat flies out on your porch. The days are getting shorter.
I hold you, and we watch blu-ray CDs you found on sale. Soft light from the flatscreen plays across your face as you fall asleep. I keep the movie on a little longer.
I hold you. In December, we bring a blanket to Long Island and listen to the sound of snow falling on the dunes.
You call in sick for work too often.
I hold you, and you know my callouses well.
We share the same sheets; we are wrapped up in each other.
I hold you, and kiss your hair.
You smell like candied oranges.
The afternoons eat away at one another. Dishes pile like uneven layer-cakes in your kitchen sink, crested with suds.
You say you feel uninspired.
Now we argue about laundry, and the sounds of your unhappy apartment are heard through half-open windows.Ā
You shout, eyebrows furrowed like the pages of a book. A white plate soars from the grip of a trembling hand, misses an upturned chin, and interrupts us with its shattering.
This time, itās different.
Sleep escapes us ātil the sun is already planted on the easternmost rooftop.
I hurt you the way I learned to, and stay awhile, but donāt know why I stay.
We sink into sweet, heavy things: the saxophone in āCharcoal Babyā, shared creamsicles on hot Saturday evenings.
I see you less and less, and remember less and less of you.
Will I see you next week?
Yes, if you text me.
You forget,
just like weād both hoped.
Rec
šŖ±Tightly drawn smiles
Loosely fitted
Scrubbing the drain, circling it even
Settling dust
Yearning for movement
A force of nature
An action plan, a family man
Laying down foundations
For impersonations
Renting down the river,
Winding up a creek
With two fists
To open my favourite window
And forget to close it
Letting the debris in
If bin lorries could tell stories
They'd sleep in an unmade bed every night
Wednesday morning, mother's warning
The man walks his dog
Through oppressive heats
And violent winds
Why can't you do the same?
Stop seeking answers
And seek a home
Stay there, stay away
The pegging to clothesline pipeline
Against brick walls
My balls bounce and fall
A pinch and a tuck never hurt much
But where do I lay my head at night?
How many mistakes
Should I contemplate
Were the force of nature
Blowing out my last birthday candle
With a giggle
A tightly drawn wiggle
A master of mimicry
But I know you, I see you
Your silk cocoon
Never strung for permanence
Your writhing
In step-by-step conniving will
End when you wake
To find yourself decaying
Stuffed in your rotten beanpod
Full of somebody else's shit
You never open the window, you see
Rec
I knew this love of mine was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleeps, but the kind that floats, listless and unmoored, like a feather dislodged in a storm. It drifted upward, aimless, circling, caught in the breath of things that once felt steady: laughter, warmth, the scent of jasmine from my grandmotherās porch before the war of illness took her away. Joyful people are rarely light. The ones who care the most often carry the heaviest sorrow, but they smile, because someone has to.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
I understood this, too late, maybe, as the weight settled on my back like wet wool. I stood by the grave, the earth soft beneath me, and felt my heels sink into the mud. Ruined, cheap patent leather borrowed from my mother, now darkened with soil. She should have been angry. On any other day, she might have been. But not this time.
There was no room for anger. Only silence, shared between women who have known the quiet violence of duty.
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