I go by Finn, but with an o so its
Fionn
because in senior year I chose to do a project about Irish folklore,
well I had to do the project
but I could pick the topic
so I read Irish myths and told everyone about Fionn mcumhail and my little pocket knife’s namesake
in the Newton library I was looking up articles on folk-websites, the kinds with funny graphics
the sun was coming in through the windows and it got in my eyes
I was drinking seltzer and I crushed the can in my hand
when I hugged Lydia
the hug was hard and the water spilled on my shirt

i’m collecting all my sweet, translucent turbulent marble darlings
I’m breathing life into them

they were always mine and will never be anyone else’s
and no one gets to know when my feet were cold
or when i could only eat butter spaghetti for dinner
or what I got at CVS
or anything I ever told my “kids”
or ******* whatever else or the sun on my jeans when i walked on the charles
with my sunday school students.

On Ash wednesday I got some candy hearts, one of them was a # and the other said BAE
but there was no ‘call me’ or ‘fax me’ or even something contemporaneous like
‘text me’
like maybe we’ve aged out of those, I don’t know.
last saturday car put gel in my hair
and dust stuck to it so I had to shower and I found glitter
and donuts in Dupre
and we were greedy little silly boys, shoving stale, sticky sweetness down our throats.
We had soft cheese spread on bread with grant, too
who got his glasses broken by some guy a few months back, grant
who looks like elly pickette but with flat, blue hair
slicked down! and John lennon glasses, like gavin’s

on Saturday we sang Talking heads in owen’s room
and we had real irish whiskey, sipped it slow, let it burn in our throats
it didn’t feel like much, at least not too bad.
on Saturday, I felt so organically pleased it was almost frightening
look at my pretty friends! look at those angels.
they’re gonna go so far,

because I study with them sometimes
on days like Thursday when I read dylan thomas
and I just love them, so truly
not unafraid yet, but I do love them. i look at them looking at their books
and I feel grateful for a place such as the library
and I read this little think piece (when’s the last time you heard that word? I havent heard it in awhile )
about Mussolini, it was a satirical play.
and this Russian sentimental sonnet about the tropic sea
(oh but the sea, it does not raise its voice to me!)
and the oppressive sun,
like my third grade play (yikes)
and I wish I could tell people stories without laughing.

The saturday before the last last saturday
yamalí and I got an uber and we walked up
flights of winding stairs and learned about the golden horses on top of the statehouse
and someone rode on the horses
(but you can’t do that anymore.)

I dropped a bag of sleeptyime into my steeping cup of steaming tea
turmeric turned it this deep orange shade, sort of beautiful,
I turned up Marlena shaw
I sat and typed against my cinderblock wall, face to close to the screen as always,
comforted by that familiar return, the learned response to the stimuli,
and the unconsciously practiced
and I am not afraid of all the things I don’t know and
I have so much to learn and i have to do lots of things,
im going to try to make it all worth the while and gather memories
of time, my little friends.