Are there people you would rather be? Are you looking
for a better fit, a thing to hold you closer at night
in the wee hours of another small morning? Stop.

This is Elsa in the wake of thirty:

eyes that open and move forward; skin like heavy cream
with just two freckles left over her right eye; the shoulders
of a swimmer, the voice of a preacher; bits and pieces
remaindered in the men she has known, still knows, the women,
the students, hundreds by now, multiplying with time like chaos;

a cat named Judy; a roommate named Judy; the decency of
meaningful work well prosecuted; unseeded fear of the ocean;
an exponential desire to see Cuba; closets filled with green
clothes, velvet like moss, every subtle shade of the forest;
so many friends, hungers; a bend of spirit that even on this
eighth attempt, no words seem capable of holding in place;
strange, wild; fierce.

You threw me the ball and immediately ran up to kick me hard
on the shins—I remember this. You made Roland K a valentine
that he ripped into small slivers and threw at your feet—I want
to forget this. You stole $40 from Mother's purse to buy beer
and gave me one bottle, without asking, in front of your friends,
me, your kid brother—I will love you even more than this for
the next thirty years.

This country is grey with two smoke curls for every cloud. We know
a place much brighter, of blues and golds, where time moves more
slowly and the math always holds. Do you feel displaced? Uneven?
Do you ever gasp for breath like a beached fish? Daydream about
another person in another life? Not today. On this day, you have me
and I can breathe for you.

Me: A boy with a patch over one eye, trying to spell a-d-a-g-i-o,
and you are a girl, my sister, my Elsa, thirty years old and now
here, a new country trapped at your feet. Walk on it. Throw your
shoulders into it. Teach us how to sing your hymns. Keep teaching us,
as hard and slow as we learn, as fast and soft as you go.

I could wish you a series of platitudes:
health, happiness; a visit with Mother;
a single fond memory of Father;
a beach in Cuba with no waves
and clear water to the depths
of your floating marching feet;
solutions for all of your problems.

I could wish you riches, a coat made
from the palace drapes of a green
king. I could wish you long life, infinity,
love, a gentle kiss from Roland K.

Instead, two things, genuine and heartfelt, if a touch selfish.

I hope you like this poem.

I hope you are the exact person you would rather be.


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