Not My Hand

Parked under a dripping canopy of leaves today.
Sat and wept and called Adam.
Told him it has been ten years since he called me Jean Gallagher.
Jean Gallagher--he held my wrist--not my hand.

It rains in ninety-degree weather here. Hard, fat, drops that smack your windshield and your scalp.

Guy was talking to himself next to me at the coffee shop.
Talking to himself and typing away. Looked like he was playing a piano, the way he bowed and swayed his head with emotion.
We talked about Baudelaire. He read the poems. I read the essays. Usually it's the opposite.
His hair veiled his eyes in waves. I can't even guess what color they were.

Gay guy on the phone, helping me find apartments. From California.

Flipped out on Chuck last night. No reason. No real reason.
Said I made him sick. Before bed.
He asked if he was still welcome to come to Houston.
The fact that he felt he needed to ask made me feel hollow inside.

I told Johnny I would call him back. Never did.

I was asked what my mother and father did for a living.
I told them what my aunt and uncle do for a living.
Called Fatemeh my mother. Made me sad.
Called Massoud my father. Made me sick.

I wish Mom would call me. "Why the hell would you want that?" Bita asked.

Parked under a dripping canopy of leaves today.
Sat and wept and called Adam.
Told him it has been ten years since he called me Jean Gallagher.
Jean Gallagher--he held my wrist--not my hand.