February 5, 2016 | Poetry
That thing I scrape against every floor. That thing, that thing keeps betraying me. I knock on wooden bones for good luck, but... more
When I watch porn with my husband, I notice the places where the woman’s spray tan isn’t perfect. It isn’t her fault, it’s her spray tan technician. I point out the little white half-moons underneath her ass cheeks when she bends over. I point to them on screen and say, “I can do a way better job than that.”
The past kept living inside me like a cheap Timex. “Where are you going?” the store clerk said. But I heard my father in my head, practically dragging me from bed to bon voyage me out of Newark when this terminal was merely stairs, no moving sidewalks...
Eventually, I turned to memoir because I wanted to stay in scene. I craved space. I believe in the connection between poetry and memoir. It’s no coincidence that some of our best memoirs have come from poets: Mary Karr, Nick Flynn, Lucy Grealy, Mark Doty, Maggie Nelson, and Sarah Manguso—that list could go on-and-on.
According to my parents, I was obedient from birth—I emerged in silence and then slept through the night. I was just never interested in rebelling—even as a “punk,” I got good grades and was always home by curfew.
Here’s a statistic: After reading Brian Oliu’s Enter Your Initials For Record Keeping, I’ve spent more of my life reading Oliu than playing basketball.