Watching myself trying to write this poem
The Witness
I recall the many times throughout this day
I
Attempted to
And failed at
Decoding the
Compost in my mind
And
I wonder if I could somehow
Add Andrew into this poem—
The one who tells me how to be THE witness
How to observe
Detached I can see myself, all my parts, the gloriously messy, wrought with metal, iron, rice and beans, yellow-stained project hallways, piss stained staircases, where no one would dare to walk or climb unless the other piss stained elevator was broken (again) and you went with someone else (or would you?— because I actually only remember ever going alone?)
Where we moved to another place in the Bronx, “safer” this time (from whom or what… myself?) but lonely, and desolate (internally), with picturesque, sun drenched horse rides, no pesky, little half-sister siblings around or even really invented of course, of course…
And then I have to stop here, the Witness tells me—
You’ve been down this wistful, “nostalgic” road before, the looping, winding trajectory, who am I doing this for? She asks,
There is no need, she continues
To show me that I am right where I am supposed to be
That I am
The—
nightshiftsister 