Far Rockaway
Then it’s Chicago. I’m okay. Land at O’Hare. Then have some Chicago weather. Another plane goes by. It does seem like an airport. I’m checking for arrivals and departures.
I don’t remember any of your faces. Who are you? I’ve never seen you before? Are you my long lost family? What are you doing here? Why are you staring at me? What have I done to deserve this?
Did I tell you what a great audience you are? Did I tell you this may be recorded? It’s so wonderful to see you all here. I will never forget you.
And me a kind of jittery shape breathing in the dark. I find cracks in the dark. Listen for the dark.
You might remember the good old verb tenses. Who. Was. Were. Would. Where. I’m asking where are you? What was I wearing? Where is my airport?
So okay I’m in the middle of this. A little elusive abstract. For what feels like an eternity. The King of Norway dies. Just like always.
The crew mimes inflatable vests first one tube then the other. Things are getting quite bumpy. The pilot says just a little turbulence folks. Then sings a familiar lullaby. I lose six hours sleeping over an ocean.
I stay cautiously human. Cautiously make eye contact. Use my hand sanitizer. Am often referred to as a “hand sanitizer poet”. I make my way cautiously to this podium.
The luggage carousel jerks into a wall. The bag circles again and again.
I often find myself on subway platforms. Then I forget my notebook on the orange seat beside me imagine the doors closing the voice urging me to watch my personal belongings. Would you call this love?
Then finally the gate keeper checks my passport nods like a Kafka. I nod back like we knew each other in high school not that well.
Then I think of my notebook going stop by stop to Far Rockaway. Like a flat doodling brain.
I can’t remember all the repetitions this pill that pill. I go through security again. Get caught inside this airport. Buy a pillow. Put my tray table in locked position.
We never said anything. We never asked. And you. I’m surprised you’re so old. It turns out I’m the oldest I’ve ever been. Does this hand look younger in this light? Does it look like a monkey hand to you?
They were sisters. Selma Ester Hannah Hildur Dagmar and Maerta lived in a lila stuga along a long skinny lake
I lay awake call myself Selma. Dream of waking up with only a stone under my head. Dream of calling myself O’Hare. I gather evidence by day to dream at night. Any given experience lasting ten seconds or less. If I counted all the seconds would they even add up?
And just how can all these little pieces of weather add up to Chicago weather? The sky clogs. Night like a thousand air conditioners in the dark. I wash my hands of it. Somedays I think I’m going to be dead some day.
I have to be frank. At this point I’m a busy elderly woman looking for an audience. I’m clearly elderly. And yes thank you for asking.
You clap. I curtsy. I’m nervous. Check my boarding pass. Cram a carry-on. Watch a small black plane inch across an ocean. You tell me is it natural to be 30,000 feet in the air?
My heirlooms are in a U-Haul. I keep finding myself on platforms. I find myself inching out to Far Rockaway.
Be honest do I look younger in this light? What kind of light would I need to look younger? You go off and buy an airport pillow.
He said. This war is small potatoes. I forget if this war ever ended. Dream my emergency dream, the one where I give everyone extra blankets. Look for my baby. Call my baby Nervous after my mother. O’Hare after my airport.
I too had these ancestors who begot and begot out of wedlock. I’m fine. There are signs of my heirlooms on an interstate heading from Chicago to New York.
So ok I’m still an old lady and this war is still going. I scrutinize everyone. Wrote a love poem so convoluted the person I give it to will never understand.
The luggage carousel jerks into a wall. The bag circles again. I blame natural selection. My short attention span. This flight path. This nor’easter. I don’t like to complain but the planes here are too loud.
I follow the arrows to the moving walkway. Shuffle forward when my zone is called. Resolve to be stable and wayward.
Now I remember you. Are you hungry? Unnamable? Could we possibly die off? How nervous are you? Then I think of my life. There’s a door there’s a ceiling. There’s me. Why are you just sitting there staring at me? Should I know you from somewhere? I do remember these folding chairs this back yard these droning planes. This evening.
I like to think things are solid. I use all my minutes. Refer to myself as a human. Mostly I’m sorry to go on and on. What happens to humans without humans? I’m glad you chose to be here with me. You’re a nice crowd. Please give me a warm welcome. I love you. I’m naming you Audience in memory. I have no time but I keep trying to get there.
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