To tell you the truth,
I'm terrified,
of life
of love
of tomorrow
of next week
of the rest if forever.

Everyday my hands shake,
my heart pounds,
my legs buckle at the knees

Questions about my future
elicit trembling statements,
inquires into my love life
make me shake,
and making plans
causes my hands to sweat

Tomorrow is so uncertain,
what we know,
who we love,
may never exist beyond this point,
our illusion of life
is more fragile that the smallest flower
our feelings of control
are smoke and dust
and the idea of eternity
is greater than any of us.

And I am scared.

Breathe in,
breathe out,
there,
you have just successfully converted oxygen into carbon dioxide,
you have been productive,
you have done enough today to give the trees a job,
like a tired mother,
they go around un-doing everything you've worked so *******,
In,
out,
muscles relaxing,
tension releasing,
carbon dioxide expelled,
diluted by the oxygen,
in,
out,
lungs burning,
legs aching,
quick,
sharp,
inoutinoutinout,
hands on hips,
bent at the waist,
a long red ribbon laying broken at your feet,
inoutin out in  out   in    out,
calming,
slowing until it is normal again,
in,
o-,
your breathe catches,
heart beating faster,
eyes locked,
a great love epic in the making,
the carbon dioxide sitting in your lungs waiting for you to remember to release it,
screaming lungs silenced by a pounding heart,
insides so loud,
outsides completely silent.
OUT,
in,
out,
lungs comforted,
heart calmed by the brain,
continue walking,
normal,
in,
out,
the trees following behind you,
fixing all the air you have ruined,
and giving it back to you, once again.

A man, about 50, sitting on a street corner,
A change cup sitting in his lap with only a few ***** pennies resting on the bottom, rattling slightly.
A small girl with a blue dress walks along behind her mother, holding her hand.
She stops.
She peers at the man, head tilted to the right inquisitively.
Her mother tugs her hand slightly but the girl stays put,
just staring.
The man stares back at her, watery eyes watching her hesitantly.
Suddenly, the girl steps towards him.
A quick “Hi” escapes her lips.
The ghost of a smile passes over the man's face,
cracking his dark skin which, hasn't stretched this way for a long time.
The girl's mom stands, clicking the heel of her shoe impatiently on the sidewalk.
The girl slowly lowers herself and sits on the cold cement in front of the man.
Her blue eyes look deep into his own faded brown ones.
She slides closer to him and looks into his cup.
She looks quizzically up at him, her face asking why there is so little inside.
Her mother steps forward now and attempts to grab her away.
The girl lunges to the man; she wraps her small pale arms around the mans dark neck.
He raises his arms tentatively, holding them around her small frame.
Her mother pulls her away and carries her down the street,
leaving the man sitting alone on the corner,
no better off than before,
but then again,
much better off...

A brown clipboard holding some sheets of paper.
Names,
lists of them all signed perfectly
with the black ball-point pen dangling from a chain off the side.
Him,
a family member, one who I had respect for.
Me,
seven years old
told to wait outside on the porch while he talked to my mother.
A bumper sticker,
two people holding hands accompanied by a slogan,
“Marriage” it said,
“one man,
one woman”.

I was too young then to understand,
maybe I am still too young to understand,
all I knew then is that my uncle asked my mother to sign something,
war declaration for all I knew,
and I guess it was in a way,
a war against people,
and a war against choice.

My mother did not sign the paper,
the one with all the names,
one slot on the clipboard left blank for the next person to choose to pick up the pen,
that black ball-point pen,
and to sign their name,
slowly,
perfectly,
signing away a life,
but not their life,
they would go on, and on, and on,
but signing away another's life,
someone they would never meet,
someone they would never know,
but someone they already disliked.
Why?

If that clipboard were given to me now,
I would be like my mother,
strong in my determination not to scribble my own messy name underneath the list of others,
strong in my determination not to sign away someone else's life,
someone else's happiness,
someone else's future.

The tides have fallen,
but the waters keep rising,
choking out the remaining few who struggled to retain their homes.
Shotgun houses,
long abandoned when the levees broke,
and the ocean crashed through the streets,
leaving a wake of more than just sand.

X's
marks on doors,
spray-painted numbers depicting the body count,
telling you if it was safe to go inside,
if you will be poisoned by gases,
or memories.

Volunteers,
thousands of them,
rushed to the scene,
quick, for their moment in the spotlight,
while the house were still damp,
helpful only in the attraction they brought with them,
where are they now?
Now that the houses and the people have dried themselves off,
where are they?
Those who lost nothing,
those who have everything,
where are they?

Out of sight,
out of mind,
out of the way,
locked away,
a secret,
kept tight,
except for the occasional whisper of the waves.

New Orleans,
a broken city,
still fractured,
held together by hope,
and help,
from the few who still venture down
to help put the pieces back together.
The select few
who still care
about the forgotten city,
the cracked town,
a city that's been down on its knees for seven years.

A hole in the ground,
slowly filled,
shovelful by shovelful of damp earth
filling the space around the small mahogany box.
Memories are pushed to the surface,
elevated upwards by the soil.
They think of her,
just a girl, just a girl...
Mary,
that was her name.
She was stubborn,
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary”, they would all tease her jokingly,
and she laughed along,
because she thought it was funny,
and she knew it was true.
Mary,
just a girl, just a girl,
too young to die,
too old to live happily.
She had been part of the world, and one of the people,
she had seen what she wanted to be,
and she wouldn't rest until she reached it.

Long hair,
perfect skin,
flat stomach,
thin legs,
white teeth,
perfect face,
a skinny waist.

Don't eat, don't eat, don't eat
A mantra,
she would repeat it to herself every day
Don't eat, don't eat, don't eat
It gave her something that she mistook for strength, for life, for vitality,
Don't eat,
she would whisper it when she awoke
Don't eat,
she would match it in time with her steps,
Don't eat, don't eat, don't eat.

She saw who she wanted to be,
Her,
she would point her out,
that girl there,
the one on television,
the one who has everything,
the one who was everything,
Her,
the girl who she wanted to be.

But a body can only bend so far before it breaks,
can only take so much weight before it sinks,
can only take so much pressure before it bursts,
and for Mary,
she has broken, sunk, and burst.
Poor Mary,
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,”
oh Mary, what makes your stomach grow?
Now your buried deep, and covered with snow...

She's just a stone now,
and some memories,
no longer a body,
no longer a girl.