Annick (my 28 year old sister) came down to NYC, from Boston, for a day visit. It was one of those warm, cerulean days between Christmas and New Years. Annick’s in a surgical residence, in a pandemic, but still somehow, she got away.

We’re dining on a shaded, outdoor, sundeck - I arrived first, by a moment but then the elevator opened and Annick emerged, looking like a model - familiar but I don’t know - more completely adult - more than ever like my mom. It was all I could do not to weep for happiness when we hugged.

After that long hug, Annick gave my clothes a slow, censorious looking-over. When my mom and I shopped for “school clothes” last year, in Paris, I bought some stunning designer (Anna Molinari) clothes - only to find out they were completely out of place at Yale. Now they’re sentenced to a trunk under my bed and my replacement clothes are from FatFace and Patagonia. Ordinary clothes, bought for their ordinariness.

I’ve been dressing to disappear but I wanted her to see a “new me.” How I’ve survived in a rough, academic country - not just survived - but thrived. I also wanted her to think her sister was beautiful and hoped I didn’t seem too strange. She cupped my chin - just like my mom does - “You look wonderful,” she said.

Annick mentioned we’d have company for lunch but she was alone - then this tall, fair-haired, man was with us. He slipped his arm around Annick’s waist and they smiled, together. I’d never met one of Annick's boyfriends before so this was a little disconcerting - part of me wanted to pull her away and say, “MINE!”

Annick made the introductions, “Anais, this is Gerard - Gerard, Anais.”  Gerard leaned into la bise then half hugged me, patting me bearishly on the back. I decided he was too tall and too handsome and began to examine him for flaws.

He wore a dark-charcoal-gray cashmere suit with a light-gray oxford-cloth shirt. “Are you always so dapper?” I asked? “I wanted to look substantial,” he said, with a very slight French accent. He held me at arm’s length. “You’re definitely sisters,” he said, smiling.

We settled in. At first we were a little stilted with each other, uncertain how to best introduce ourselves. Annick said that Gerard is a “Child Neurologist.” “Funny,” I said, “you look older.” and he laughed. I was warming to him.

“How’s school going?” Annick asked later, moving some of my fly-away hair out of my face - a trace of the maternal in her solicitous fussing - but I liked it.
“Easy peasy,” I said, the lie warming me like an ember or black magic.

There’s no real sibling rivalry between us. Imagine you’re Beyoncé’s sister, what are the odds that you’ll eclipse Beyoncé? Yeah, it’s ZERO.

“Ha!” she laughs, “you are such a little fibber.”
“I am NOT,” I hotly say, but my defense is ruined by my laugh. “I’m doing ok - but it’s a lot,” I say, to erase the fib.

They’re ENGAGED!
I tried not to act stunned but I doubt I was very convincing. The news thumped me like a gust of wind. Suddenly, I knew. Our yesterdays were no more substantial than a story we’d read together growing up, that you can mourn and rejoice at the same time.

Otherwise it was a family lunch, although at first I was a bit nervous around Gerard. At one point Annick says, “What are you doing?” as the table gently quivered.
I smiled wincingly, “Making circles with my ankles,” I said.
Annick smiled knowingly.

i found the body of a small bird on my kitchen floor.
it was so small, legs curled upwards,
eyes lifeless and open.

how long had it been there? it was
evening, the silky winter light
had almost set, yet outside i cradled it
in my palm, soft and green.

on grass stained knees, i dug
dirt caked fingernails through
dusty earth, and
mumbling a prayer, gently buried
it under the camellia bush.

i have never been interested in death,
content with my own indifference,
but oh – to settle a beautiful thing,
tuck it into place under the earth above
which it once soared, to part the damp
soil and return what once was born –

was the world always this delicate?

I often think of the distance between us,
what it would mean for us to meet halfway,
sail out to some unknown island in the pacific,
and dock our vessels beside one another’s.
Nothing but the sound of your laughter,
the gentle knocking of our boats,
and the clear water lapping at our ankles
as we kick up sand along the ocean floor
trying to reach out to each other.
I think, the first time you take my hand,
that the heat on my skin will match
the warm in my chest, the sun free of
clouds to hide behind, open, bright.
You see, I have loved the ocean waves.
I have bathed in the sunshine and sand
like most never have. But in loving you,
my dear, I see the sea sparkle, the sand glow,
the sunshine beam, and delight at the salty
sting of your teeth biting my lip.
I often think of the distance between us,
and how when it does cease to exist,
salt will have never been so sweet.

my lover is to me as a sunrise over the mountains, easing heavy eyes and tugging at sprigs from the earth with warm hands

my lover is to me as a speckled cat upturned in dusty summer grass, pawing the sky, wind pulsing through field and fur

my lover is to me as a deep orange hazelnut in the palm of a hand, plucked from the warm canopy above

my lover is to me as the soft light of heaven rising on snowy windowsill,  melting what night fell, dripping me clean

I met love in a field of flowers
It sat alone in the sunlight.
“Can I sit beside you?”
I asked it.
And it nodded its head.
Its small hands folded softly in its lap.
“Do you ever get tired?”
I asked it.
And I heard it exhale.
“Can I sleep beside you?”
I asked.
And it nodded,
Resting its head next to mine.
“We’ll just close our eyes for a moment”
I said,
“Just long enough for the spinning to stop.”

So falls Greece, so falls Rome,
And in their bone-lipped tombs
Forever those still listening for love.

my one wish is
to find someone
who sees the world
as beautiful as i do
with their mouth
preaching poetic beauty
as i have once done
to all the boys
i have loved

Cave Art

The caves of Altamira, Spain
were painted, it is said
not by one or a collaborative few
pondering together the arrangement of forms into a composition,
but by strangers
wandering in and out,
each adding independently their own designs--
a hand or deer or buffalo--
their mark upon the world.

So, too, it was on the walls of the gas station bathroom.
The wandering strangers left their marks
not in pigments of red or yellow ochre
but with technology quite new—
sharpies, pocketknives, and written word.
They etched their works in jagged strokes upon the peeling paint.

Their subject matter mostly centered
incoherent curses
but one corner housed
a whole political debate.

They had no antelope nor spears
but still, a ghost of beastly hunts—
of chasing or of being chased—
perhaps is recognized.

Spacious though the canvas was,
it struggled to contain the thoughts
of its collaborators—
so much they had to say
that like the painters of Lascaux
they simply overlapped the strokes of others who had gone before,
interlocking cries into a web.

To a conservator’s dismay,
some of their words were silenced
by a mist of sapphire aerosol spray
but still, they can be read
by those who care to see.

An anthropologist who stops and looks quite carefully
can trace the lines below the paint
and read what lies beneath—
the testaments of artist souls and neolithic dreams.