I had one of those orgasms
that comes on too fast
but makes up for it by
never seeming to end.

It threw my lover
so much that he had to pause
the linear world of modern lovemaking
and regroup.

 An unusual moment alone with my thoughts,
“Those they cannot take away,”
my grandmother said.


My grandmother’s apartment in Berlin
was a first night’s stop for friends of friends
fleeing East Berlin in the late 50’s,
before the wall went up
and the S-Bahn still defiantly connected the city.

They came without suitcases, these women,
so as not to raise suspicion
slept in their clothes under borrowed blankets
and used the towels my grandmother had liberated
from her time cleaning hotel rooms. 


I see pictures online of a small village in the
extreme north of Siberia where
old women who were once nomadic herders of reindeer
are now hidden away in small apartments,
their oldness too old to remain wandering with their clans,
(though old men are encouraged to keep wandering).

The women dream of feeling the snow under their feet again
and sing the lullabies of their childhood to get to sleep.
Their faces etched by wind, loss, memories,  


I read the description of a male actor’s face in a major newspaper.
He isn’t pretty anymore, so they say,
but he’s weathered into something much more interesting,
something about the furrow of his brow.

My furrowed brow is not yet set in place but it certainly
draws attention to itself
when I put my “thinking cap” on,
as Miss Privite told me to do in kindergarten.
It’s so strange and unlike my normal gentle face that
seeing it scares people.

-You look concerned/confused

-Did you throw the wrong leg over the elephant?