Unspooled

Sometimes I feel as if I’m undone, 
a big spool of yarn 
rolling down a steep hill and out into the street,
down the garbage-gathered drain. 

Other times, I’m standing in front of Ramon’s
apartment building in Mexico City. Remember
when I broke that bottle of Tequila Herradura.
It shattered in shards and slivers. 
¡Hijole, y fue uno de los Buenos! 
the doorman lamented, watching the smooth 
white liquid spill onto the sidewalk. Lost. 
I wonder what people would say about me 
as I fall and crash to smithereens. 

I want to laugh out loud when I see 
I’m as solid as a snow cone. 
As if I could be slurped up, tossed out or simply melt away.
As if I could be a sweetness craved, a crying child’s prize
on steaming summer days. 

Prescription: Wrap arms tightly 
around chest, imagine freshly baked challah, 
imagine a Friday night when you allow 
yourself to rest your shredded senses, 
and put on that white lace Brazilian dress. 
Do not think of shards, 
think instead of strong vigas, high 
ceilings, an unobstructed view 
of the Big Dipper, Leonard Cohen 
carrying your darkness in his secret chords. 
Sing Hallelujah. 
Sing Heneni 

I am here.