Haiku

Free Verse

Prosies







< ? bostonites # >

Quick doesn't want to lose me. And I'm not sure I want to lose Quick. But I remember the way she used to treat me -- the way we used to treat each other -- when she wasn't scared of losing me, and I know I don't want that either.

I thought it would be easier, to quote Ms. Shelby Lynne.

That's the bittersweet of breaking up—all of a sudden, songs on the radio have a whole new depth of meaning. I found myself singing all the words to Cream's "We're going wrong" today.

Last night, I drove in the snow back to Lowell. Quick tried to convince me to stay in Brookline -- she must have called me two or three times at about 5:00 PM. But I drove back anyway. Polite, but firm. And even though my RSI was killing me after another night on the air mattress, I was glad I did.

A smidgen of a poem came to me while I was driving in that white landscape. But after the Ostara ritual, after eating a frozen dinner, strapping myself into the arm splints, and downing a pot of herbal tea, it was mostly washed away.

I can't explain to you
why I must venture into that white landscape
but I know that I must

There's a women's open mic event in Cambridge about once a month; I screw up the courage to go from time to time, and I did last Friday. My old college roomate, Buttonnose, was there, with her butchy girlfriend and her entourage of Cambridge lesbians.

Cambridge has lesbian chic, too, just like Vassar did. And just like at Vassar, Buttonnose found it first. She and I were only roommates for about a month, and the reunion was chilly, if not downright frigid. I don't know what I did to that girl—actually I do know; I was a terrible roommate, who stole the change she left around for furtive trips to the vending machine, and ate the bagels she brought back from the dining hall. But our last conversation was pleasant enough. I suppose it really has nothing to do with me, but with her and her own baggage.

Regardless of what Buttonnose thinks of me, I am not lesbian chic. I am suspect. My hair is long. I wear lipstick, and even foundation, mascara, and eye shadow on occasion. I wear high heels and boot-cut pants. I make more money than your average social worker. And even though I haven't slept with a man in I don't know how long, I still identify as bi—just to piss them off.

But it's okay. I came with two friends, and they supported me. One of them—Rosycheeks— is the woman on whose floor I slept last Saturday. She told me in this incredibly roundabout way, that she was relieved that my poetry didn't suck. It's nice to know that I know that too. Not only does my poetry not suck, but it's pretty damn good.

That and three bucks will get me a latte.