Tete a tete
there is no way to tell anyone
all the things I would say to you
not the doctor, as I lay on his couch
dictate my heart onto his yellow chart
make my head suitable to be filed
spread my sorrows across his lap and beg
for understanding, or just a fix
not the librarian, wise in her sea of books
straight spine, stern looks, ears alert
all the words never spoken in her hand
the world a reference, even she
would never understand it all
despite having read every ending in advance
not my mother, I know
the person who made this cannot explain exactly
the things it has produced, as a critic
she can see the beauty but knows too well
the heft, the shape
the line of every flaw
having carried them herself
not my sister, she is not enough like me
to see with my same eyes, she grew up
in another room, the voices through the wall
the same, but heard with other ears
a different rise and fall of family
as she drifted off to sleep
not a teacher, who might even tell me every why
and every how or when but never show
the work, never let fall simple facts
the way I see them standing
not a stranger, as if anyone could
know me just from being at the same time
sitting together on a bus, bumping in a hallway
or sharing stars, both noticing but each
under our separate sky
only you could I tell my secret, only you
could understand my shooting arrow
my arc, my fall, my hits and misses, all
the things that burst me every day
but even so, even then
it seems that there may not be time
or words enough between us
perhaps we will
hold hands awhile first
--smh