No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
I keep my hands to myself. It makes things easier. I pull my elbows in tight, cross my arms over my body, and take up as little space as I can. Everything I need, I carry with my own limbs, and I don’t have to worry about overstepping bounds if I never step outside of my own personal bubble.
“Charlie Suskind is a prideful man who hates losing,” George said. “He’s only lost this tournament once. He fired one of the guys who beat him and made life a living hell for the other until he quit. Our jobs are on the line. Got it?”
Every September, my husband Dan watches the US Open. Broadcast live from Flushing Meadows, Queens, where I have roots, it takes place on the former grounds of the 1964-65 New York World's Fair. I've never latched onto tennis, but I'll often watch for a few minutes, waiting for the inevitable shot of the Unisphere so I can make my annual comment, “I saw that with my family at the World's Fair.”
“Dad, what are you doing?”
He ignored her and continued writing. His right hand moved in a flurry, a stubby yellow pencil gripped tightly in his fingers. He mumbled something to himself, paused for a moment, then scribbled again. He appeared to be transcribing the contents of one notebook into another. Both notebooks were filled with his own handwriting.
I keep walking, hands buried deep, collar turned up, and then I see them— a man and woman huddled at the bus stop, stealing kisses between clouds of breath, laughing like the world isn’t breaking a little more every day...
Tilt Everything is bricking out. Nothing turns red or black or hits trips or boats up without consequences. By that I mean the man gnawing on his knuckles and his baby daughter somewhere he can’t go...