I have wondered about you

Am I the new person drawn toward you?

But before I step further, should I take warning?

For I know —

you may not be what I expect.

But what is it I expect?

Do I expect you to fit some ideal?

Do I think it so easy for us to weave? Together?

Do I think your friendship will be endless satisfaction?

A marathon of blissful confirmation bias?

 
Will I see no further than my impression of you?

Can you ever be, in my mind or heart or body, even

thicker than two dimensions?

And will it shock me when you try

to break into the third?

 
And I wonder

if when I step forward to embrace you,

my arms are wrapped around mystery —*

do I believe in this mirage?

Believe you are a knowable thing?

That you will be the caregiver, the challenger

I envision for myself?

 

And I have wondered if it may all be maya, illusion.

This poem is a reformulation of Walt Whitman’s “Are you the new 

person drawn toward me?”

*This line and the line above borrows phrasing from Rebecca Solnit’s 

A Field Guide to Getting Lost.

The Urge

 
to tattle on her.

Be too grown up to bother.

Choke on laughter —

let it bust out my eyes.

 
Glimpse my hair in every mirror.

Curtain every reflective crack.

Call Mom.

Hit ignore.

Surprise them all —

because I’m consistent for once.

 
Sketch the Eiffel Tower —

the Liberty Bell —

research the Duke of Wellington

and build him a monument too.

Fall back asleep.

 
Monogram my purse.

Erase every material trace.

Pluck a wild mushroom and taste it.

Spit it out!

Swallow!

Let the poison slink through me —

nibble every day till I’m immune.

Barter for a bike.

Fix it up and ride it

to farmers markets and rallies.

Sip on the blue curacao sky.

3B
Wednesday, November 8, 2017 // The Statement 

I have wondered about you

The Urge

BY REGAN DETWILER, COLUMNIST

BY MAGGIE KOLCON, DAILY SPORTS WRITER

ILLUSTRATION BY BETSY STUBBS

ILLUSTRATION BY HANNAH MYERS

Sit in a paler sky and sip tea

in the hot-air balloon my husband bought

after we eloped to Turkey —

 

fix his shirt.

Cut the tags.

And all ties —

 

selflessly unload the dishes.

Leave them unfinished out of spite.

Paint myself blue like a Celtic monk —

dangle my toes off a tall pole

in Egypt.

Live there forever.

 

Tell my followers to send bread up in baskets

and cheese too

and wine

from Montepulciano.

Let’s get drunk!

 

Never mind the pole —

ax it down.

 

Quickly!

And these stupid followers too.

