The Witness

Watching myself trying to write this poem

The Witness

I recall the many times throughout this day


Attempted to

And failed at

Decoding the

Compost in my mind


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



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