Self-portrait in Verse

My friend in America texts

me, how are you today, and

and I laugh to myself. Today.

Too big a time. I reflect on

a response, sitting on a

bench in the sun. Nearly

thirty minutes before

class. But you never know

these days. How long anything

will take. Cooking a meal.

Or walking to dance—the

one thing I do in the day.

I’m listening to banjo. Which  

feels out of place. Which

is exactly what I seek and

I think about my friend’s

question. And just then I

hear a siren and turn off

my phone, make my way

to the shelter, in the basement

of the theater. Third time

for me, where many seek

safety and others call home.

Mattresses and blankets and

babies waking up. We leave

the lights off. Whisper

in low voices. Let the babies

sleep we all think, until

they can’t. We wait and

wait and when we get the

all clear we make our way

back. Still enough time

to dance. And wouldn’t you

know that it’s banjo. And

harmonica and I feel

Grama Lil with her big

toothy smile yodeling and

picking the banjo. And

we manage to dance, to

curve and turn and try to

be here. In the body, now—

the only time I now know.

And we blink and it’s over

and we shuffle out fast

and there, in the clearing

near a tree in the square

just feet a way—a bride

all in white, and her

groom beaming with

joy. And I beam along

with them and cry at

the same time. In this

time that is now. For

as long as happens

to be.