A bird hung itself outside our window. I watched it swing for two weeks. Spinning in the wind, silent, an artifact of flight. It's method was a piece of floss or some other nesting material That held fast and squeezed tight. Every morning, as I brought the box fan inside to close and lock the window above the fire escape I saw it. I watched it. For moments too long I hung on myself to the sway of the dead bird. Several days ago, it fell The air was cleared. Breathe easy. But every morning, I linger on the spot where string got caught And flight turned to suffering, then stillness. 1. Judith Nash is my neighbor. She's lived in the building since 1982. Everyday, sometimes three times a day, she tells me, she walks down and up the four flights of stairs. And every day she walks all the way around the block! "That's my neighbor,” she says and points to me when I introduce her to my boyfriend. She doesn't realize that he's her neighbor too. But that's okay. Me and Judith have a special thing going on. When she told me her name, slowly, deliberately, making sure I got the first name, then adding the last, then naming them together, I thought it sounded so regal. And though I am woefully neglectful with names, I said to myself "Kerri, this is your neighbor, in a building that feels more neighborly than you've ever experienced in New York. Take care of her. Remember her name." Judith Nash Judith Nash And my distracted mind almost forgot it when I saw her again sitting on the stoop, enjoying the breeze and peacefully watching the yells of the dice game across the street. But I didn't. "Hi Judith," I say. "Hello," she says and I walk into the building And as the door closed, I heard her proudly say to her stoop companion, "That's my neighbor.” 2. Judith is on the stoop again. This time dressed in faded peach. I ask her how she is and she says she's doing good. Happy. Yeah? I say, in the slightly patronizing way you talk to old people, like you're entertaining their speech instead of really listening. “Yes,” she says. "Nobody can make you happy." She must see the signs of tears on my face from an hour ago. I nod. "You've got to make yourself happy." I mouth thank you to her as I push through the doorway. 2. I wonder if Judith hears my insane laughter several nights a week As I wiggle naked Making fun of cubists And reveling in unfiltered imagination with my love. She's two doors down, So it wouldn’t travel through the walls But perhaps, As she's taking slow steps to her door after four flights of stairs She's heard me pleasantly befuddled By a glee Uncharacteristic Of the polite sad white girl She knows 4. Judith Nash is hibernating for the winter. I haven't seen her in weeks. I started to dread, slightly, having to say hello in the afternoons. To see her as I got home And went to the gym And came back. "Alright, alright, dear.” How many acknowledgements is enough? What can I say that will mean something without actually having to stop as I walk through the door? 5. Is Judith Nash dead? I hate to give breath or ink to the thought. But there it is I can't remember the last time I saw her on the stoop or idling up to her apartment - just two doors down from ours. The apartment we love Renovated and clean Reasonably priced. We see glimpses of vinyl tile floors and outdated furniture Through cracked doors of other apartments while walking up the stairs. We know we are privileged. How does a young white couple get a rent stabilized apartment in a building full of West Indian immigrants? Someone dies. 6. Judith Nash isn't dead. I saw her just now, in a fall colored windbreaker with friends on the bottom floor standing outside of an apartment. I softly said hello to the woman who lives in that first floor apartment, She looked as if she was in-between speaking and I didn't want to interrupt her. I'm not sure she heard me. I only saw Judith as I was passing, her face revealing itself from behind her companions bodies. My body was moving too swiftly. The recognition of Judith hit my face but didn't form into a greeting. Too soon, I was at the door while Judith scooted slowly towards it. Too rushed to wait for her slow steps to reach me, I let the door close and smiled at her. At least, I think I smiled. It didn't register on her face, So I really can't be sure. 7. Sweaty skin under winter coat Rush to the door Hot Late On the way to babysitting Find key Lock “Hello." Judith Regal In a grey calf length coat With black fur trim Orthopedic shoes and a bright pink Lunch pail Covered in peace signs. Good morning. I'm going to the doctor, she says Oh, I like your hat, I say It looks warm. She touches the black fur on her head and nods, "Alright" Have a good day, I say, About to bound down the stairs My tricky hip catching slightly With each movement down Out the door in less than a minute Jogging to the train Oh, Judith What a presence you are to me Catching me flustered And reminding me To breathe.

I promise To always find the hope The body-music When all faces have been lost To not focus on the teeth That were sanded down And capped Before I was old enough to make that decision for myself, But went ahead anyhow in vanity Thinking, "actress" "To be an actress, I must not have rounded teeth." So at my dentist’s suggestion we squared them artificially And now they're breaking down But I promised just now I would find the hope I wouldn't lament such things And I'm trying not to, I'm just telling you How it goes in this life When you add something to yourself that wasn't yours Or when you think what you had once Will last forever. Take me to church And I promise I won't come out angry this time I won't say that I'm right & they’re wrong & they're old & outdated I'll think it's just fine Coming ‘round to the places I know I can't hide Like your bed & my block & the cross where they say our sins died. And my breath is arrested by the sky And my neck is straining to keep both my eyes. Death I have not known it Beyond hermit crabs, guinea pigs And once-orphaned dogs Rescued, loved & eventually Put to sleep Wrapped in pink blankets And buried By the lake I have been luckier than most To only have imagined Life being taken from my loved ones, More irreverent than some To have announced my on-stage Suicide At the top of the show Through to the climax Struggling to step behind the flats For the sound cue to take hold (sharp breath in/Hoo - breath out) (silence) & emerge smiling at curtain call The character I played quite shaken off Ready now to bow Among the living. I have read about the Holocaust It used to be my favorite genre Flashlights under covers Reading little girls and boys lost Rationing snacks as if My own body was in danger I've read illness narratives And The Year of Magical Thinking Cried in public Pretending to bear Joan's grief What will I do? What will I do when it's me? Our last night in Italy After getting engaged We listened to Radiolab And packed As the love story faded While the volume raised Cancer A couple halved Young Like us We hold one another closer And lack the nerve To say it. Death The thought has been following me around for weeks Not a seductive whisper Like my teenage self imagined it Just surrender Giving up If the rest is just decay I'm done But yesterday I deep-cleaned my office Got rid of all my belongings From past lives Cluttering my closets Clouding my mind I let them all go And hours later, In the middle of the night Grandpa Al died And I realized In his last weeks As an incapacitated boxing coach His final thoughts Had synched with mine. Al, smiling At the gym Named for him And his preferred name, Coach It had as good a ring as Mr. Lowe Coach, Coach Teach me some discipline Teach me how to train How to fight How to win Teach me how to grieve My arms are lonely With wanting to hug you Awkwardly, around the couch I wouldn't mind minding your walker Or the tv too loud But I wouldn't bring you back No, Not like that Stuck in bed Separate Fom your wife. And I'm sorry but I can't, I won't, go with you now Even if you gave me a glimpse of the end somehow When I think of it I'll imagine you asleep on the couch Resting to rest Humming to rise. Head snapped back & howled For ten minutes. Found I wasn't bottomless. Pretty soon my wails Turned into a song.

Take me to school And I promise I won’t raise my hand up this time I won’t try to show off I’ll just listen and watch File right into the back of the line Cause I’m falling further and further behind Words in my heart Much louder than what they’ve assigned And my breath is arrested by the sky And my neck is straining to keep both my eyes Something came up screaming in me Like a baby An unreasonable Bushel Of flesh - Wanting not just any arm Any cradle But growing Toddler-shaped Shaking the glass til it breaks Fishtail shards Flashing in the waves This yell This wail This angry toddler I have Is turning violent No, I’m turning violent On him He runs at me Wanting more than I can give I hold my hand out His chest hits it I win He falls to the ground I lose When I was younger I used to count the syllables on my fingers, Like this "What do you want to do today?" That ended on an odd number, my middle finger, 3 No good. I liked to land on even numbers, 2 and 4. Pointer and ring. I would count the syllables in things other people would say, I would count my own thoughts, count the song lyrics To see where they would land, To have something to do, My hands always trying to catch up with the swiftness of the words I have been catching up to words All my life Obsessed with getting it right With that feeling Of evenness In time They say that 25 Is when the cortex is fully formed - So I do not count the pubescent scribblings, the theatrical yearnings To dissolve into nothingness They were too romantic, Too fleeting To be counted on our communal chalkboard under "Times I Could Not Cope." I am not a survivor You are not my survived Only one time in adulthood Did my private thoughts, Become too loud And I had to utter them In your grandmother's parking lot Next to the dumpster Gasping at a brain I couldn't control And fearing you would leave When I told you. Holy root Criss-crossing In search of better hold Divulges it's methods Without ceremony. The best way to entrench yourself on this damp earth Is to twist and tangle, Burrow and knot Finding comfort Not in outcome, But in present pause. There is no aftermath Only living The space between breaths, Reaching Wrought.

Your grandfather Was not a man of many hugs Or confessions to his children But he knew how to work. In the courtroom or chopping wood in a blue jean shirt, he knew how to take a life and make it a legacy He knew how to provide And plant the seed And remember. Twins, his sons And a daughter too Born of his slight wife The only true queen I've ever known Who delights in the world like a questioning child, eager to hear it all and say, "isn't it wonderful?" She doesn't have to ask, she knows But chooses to speak in inclusions Your grandfather loved her and you and his children and the farm and he would love who you have become, are becoming His ashes scattered in the back field, surrounding your solitary early morning walks, you've never been a praying man But breathing in the air and silently speaking to him is closer than close, It's sacred. I'll never know firsthand what he smelled like or talked like, Or cooked like. Is the family gift his too or did it go back further than that? His father and his father? Did Queen and King meet with shallots and spatulas up their sleeves? or did he just get lucky? great cooks all around him, sitting down at the table with an appetite to match the caseload stacked upon his desk, Enjoying every bite. Did he pick you up in his arms and dote on your perfection? Your funny ears and wide set eyeballs. Did he see you play golf? Us lucky ones got grandfathers who built something worth fighting for Houses that won't be destroyed No matter what thieves try to pillage Men who were not perfect No matter how our memories blur the edges men that could make you nervous Just by sitting quiet Keeping logs and keeping ledgers Calculations And reminders Pencils down to stubs Mapping down what was and demanding something better Your grandfather was not a man of many hugs He was foolproof, he was shelter. Polished pink Except for one Whose sheen was swiped In haste The paramedics needing a clear surface For their reading. Used to averting my eyes And covering my ears In instances of blood-talk I don’t know what they’re measuring But I'm here to sit With my hand on her arm, Be steady As she struggles to breathe. I'm prepared for her last breath To be soon Her rattled throat Sounds of liquid in her lungs I listen to the chief responder's evaluation, Unmoved. She needs the hospital But doesn’t want it. I would never convince her otherwise. I would hold her hand until she died If that’s what she decided. My nails, unpolished and picked over Would make her tut So unladylike. Patrolling my beauty Is not on her mind Right now But after the unwanted hospital And a few days at home She notices And tells me so. On Seeing Ntozake Shange Perform in 2017 The crowd starts to disperse For this living legend And I thought it would break my heart Or make me laugh But I know she'll have the last How many people have written 18 books of poetry, Award-winning plays, several novels Started a genre And got a band together At sixty-eight years old To speak-sing in a nasal voice In front of the East River Paid for by the city of New York? Walking on stage with a cane and companion In that long dress And cornrows Practically ancient Bold in her themes Nightclub massacres and rock n'roll And love Love poems like How it feels when he touches you The background singer “ooohs" and “aaahs" and "touch me's" Decades too late to be cool What is there to criticize About a woman who has never decided Her voice was not worth hearing? Queen, croon your words Tell us you are bringing us to a juke joint, a river bed, to have a good time in these dark days After making us imagine the blood of your daughter on the Miami dance floor Coughing into the microphone Needing water Needing a moment “Feeling good makes your throat dry sometimes.” “Ra-Ra!” she says and throws her arms up in the air Describing what she's seen And how she's tasted it And the children That were beaten And the cities that held birds And mothers And sports teams. Taking up the night The piano and guitar Jazz singer and shaker Finish it off Her song, She coughs Unshaken And starts again. I was what, twenty And estranged from theatre When I met him Sam I didn't know it when I shook his hand Thought he was just another customer Or old neighborhood friend My boss thought I should meet. He walked outside And she said something That made it clear I didn't know who I'd spoken to. Shepard, she said. That was Sam Shepard. Pterodactyls in my heart, I stuttered Then started to cry, Weak-kneed myself down on the chair by the dishwasher behind the bar Surprised by my own reaction I never had heroes Not since Harriet the Spy But I guess His words had filled my mouth, My lungs and gut Pretending to be Patty Smith pretending to be a kidnapper of the next great American rock star Pretended that he had loved a play I'd written as part of an exercise in first year acting school when I needed to be elated And my mind went straight to artistic validation Wrote scenes down word for word in my Moleskines on Friday nights at coffee shops without wifi. My grandmother Margie passed away last week And I have had no trembles for it yet Few tears I find it hard To feel pierced by someone Who's words I've never read I know what holding her hand felt like Exactly what her bedroom looked like Am wearing her replacement wedding band on my right ring finger And still I wonder if that's all that's left A signature on a birthday card An old jewelry box Scripture she liked But none of her own words to know her by. She said 
I hope you won’t see me In the morning