It’s a holiday weekend, all of the ‘fellows’ have Monday off.
At lunch Wednesday, Lisa said, “We need a throw-down.”
So, we made some invites and started spreading word around.
“You know, we all work hard enough, we need to get down!”
We asked for RSVPs, and got 43, for the effort, a decent payoff.

My sister’s apartment has a balcony and plenty of space.
We spent Saturday shopping and rearranging the place.
Early Sunday, we hid all the breakables and decorated,
As people settled in, things took off - as we’d anticipated.

I was surprised when I saw Quinn come in
I quietly turned to Lisa, mouthing, “Who invited him?”
The blush on her face, gave her instantly away,
“We couldn’t NOT invite him, we see him every day.”

More people were arriving, laughing and smiling, the party was thriving.
Everyone seemed to bring something, a bottle of Canadian goose,
a bucket of KFC, another of Popeyes, some glowing aurora jungle juice,
taco dip and chips, a Boston Creme pie and a cake with purple icing.

When you feel right, you let the music ignite you,
the beat seems to drive you, the vibe helps excite you,
the bass starts to thump and, well, you’re only young once,
you forget all your cares, for a delirium that’s shared.

In this ocean of joy, I saw a sad and reserved boy.

It was Quinn, in the corner, slouching on the couch.
a model of insecurity, watching the party self consciously,
I looked at Lisa, rolled my eyes, and said, “Why ME?”

I maneuvered over and took Quinn gently by the shoulders,
“Come ON, Quinn, you’re among friends, so embrace the funk,
these GIRLS wanna dance, give ‘em a chance, you’re not a monk!”
I pulled him to his feet, and dragged him over to Monique.
“Quinn, Monique - Monique, Quinn - let the dancing begin!”

By the end of the night Quinn was doing all right.
He has a quirky, awkward style, reconciled by a nice smile,
he’d danced with every girl, leaving them a little beguiled.
“Do it Quin, DO IT!” A girl, at one point, had laughed.
“Oh,” he’d said, gyrating in his herky-jerkily away, “It’s being DONE!”

Who could have known our stuffy, Harvard Quinn could be fun?!

Chinaware arranged
On a dining table -
A spectacle of silver
And breakables.

The clock strikes another hour
Yet no figure enthrones itself
At the opposite side
Of my seat.

Clutching my eyes
To the staircase
Of the chamber,
I wait patiently...

Though the food have gone cold.

caged bird - is starring into the horizon
dreaming of the touch of the luminous sun
a wingless creature,
terrified her prison will be swept away into a cruel, humid coffin


...how high
                 can a mockingbird fly?


in twilight hush's, a silhouette's hasty and restless strides, do not want to stop.
the girl is darting to her death as if there was an expiration date - only that she set it for herself

she walks the line where the shadows close
her eyes scanned the surroundings, weary of undesired company
the place is empty and she resolutely starts taking her steps with more urgency


....how high
                 can a mockingbird fly?

in the cage, a feather departed on the vexing floor
the puppeteer toying with the girl's body is moving her ahead to the guardrails
a futile endeavour is made to drift away by the bird
now she is not a bird, but collapsed heap of flesh and breakables bones

....how high
                 can a mockingbird fly?


a jelly leg is now levitating above the edge,  bleeding finger tips have asked the waves crashed on the shore, to seal a forbidden agreement
she s promised they will be at their highest when she is ready to let go and later be entombment

....how high
                 can a mockingbird fly?

Summer was only a whisper
away, I could feel
the honeybees on my tongue
when we ditched class
and followed the beaten trail like snakes
in the grass. High sun, high eyes, you
always liked them. What a drive, you say,
pulling into an abandoned lot where
foxes rule like kings and weeds are
becoming.

Too easy, you skate across the paths
like it’s winter and this is the pond
in my parents’ backyard. Same trees,
same sky, sure, but as we walked
beneath the looming canopy of branches
and nests, I felt celestial,
like an unwelcome guest
who breaks down your door and
marches on all your pillows and antique
breakables. They say a cave collapsed
millions of years ago, fostering
this grand gulf, a dwarf Grand Canyon.
We scaled down the side
of a thorny rose cliff, hummingbirds
surrounded us like crop circles.

It was in that moment, me taking a seat
adjacent to a butterfly on a daisy,
that indebtedness gripped my shirt collar
across the dining room table, saliva foaming
at the corners of its mouth, and slapped
me across the face. Cheeks burning, eyes
welling, I recognized the purity,
I recognized the sublime.

Everything I faced was part
of a divine process that no man could ever
effectuate. The gulf that could swallow
me whole with one slip, one tumble,
was designed by water, shaped
by the sandy wind. Without me or him,
it would flourish,
the vines would climb so high that not
even an angel could bring them down.

On the drive home, in his passenger
seat, all I could envision was green:
the specks in his eyes, a singular
leaf on an elm tree, the feeling
you get when you think too hard
and too long about being manmade.