Where are the indigo boys, to show me the way?
Caleb teases me, because while
he has a gay music collection—pop queens
and piano boys—I am, he insists, a closet
lesbian. So I play him some Dylan, some Joni,
some Nick Drake, and I tell him there is
room for me to sing about the two of us
tangled up in blue under a pink pink pink
pink moon. Music, like love,
cannot be defined, except
in the broadest of senses.
My father complains, my mother stays silent.
My father says it’s not the music he minds,
but that I play it so loud. They want me
to sing in the basement, but I can’t think
with the laundry and the cobwebs—
down there, all my songs begin to have
pipes. So I become a bedroom Cinderella
on a tighter deadline, allowed to sing loud
until the hour-hand tips the ten. Then I strum
softly, sing in a whisper.
I think they would like the songs better
if I left out the names, or changed
the pronouns.
No more danger.
Time’s a stranger.
When I’m in his arms.
In his arms.
He could break me.
But instead he wakes me.
When I’m in his arms.
In his arms.
I am not the first person
to avoid the second person.
But I am certainly the first person
to do it in my house.
I never thought I would end up with
someone who wasn’t possessed
by music in the same way I am.
I imagined a relationship of duets,
of you play me yours and I’ll
play you mine. Caleb doesn’t
even listen to the music I like. He dances
instead, frees himself that way
while I prefer the quieter corners,
the blank pages. Part of my music
is being alone, having that time
to shut down all the other noises
to hear the tune underneath.
Sometimes I retreat when he
wants me most. Sometimes
he wants me most when I
retreat. I will let the phone ring,
let the IM blink, and he will know
that I am there, not realizing I am
also in another place. I still sing him
songs before I am ready, sing him
back the moments he has missed.
as if to say, this is where I was
when you couldn’t find me.
The sound of my voice means
I have returned to him, ready
for a different kind of duet,
that delicate, serendipitous pairing
of listened and sung. He accepts that,
and wants more.
black ink
falls on the blue lines
spelling out silences
harboring words
you think
my love’s not the true kind
unanswering questions
do not disturb
but I’m not leaving you
when I leave you
I’m not forgetting
that we’re getting somewhere
I’m just trying
to figure my part of this
my place in the world
with you standing there
with you standing there…
Our local coffee hangout decides to throw
a weekly open mic night. I decide to go
as a member of the audience, unsure
about playing in a town that knows me
unwell. A local band snarls through
three songs, then a girl from my school
recites poems from a long black book.
I realize I can do this, that I want to be heard,
that it’s possible I have something to say.
Word spreads, and all the next week,
my friends tell me to do it, convince me
they’ll be there next time. And that is perhaps
the most surprising thing, to feel such support
for this secretive calling. So I sign my name
to the roster, and Caleb makes fliers
on his computer. He slips them into lockers
and strangers from school tell me they’ll be there.
Sometimes I’ve skipped study hall and
practiced in the abandoned stairwell by
the auditorium. Now I’m seeing how many
people have overheard. They have listened in.
I practice past my curfew, past midnight,
into dreamtime. In a moment of weakness,
to fend them off from laying down the law, I tell
my parents I have a gig coming up, as if
they would be proud of me singing in public.
My mother, polite, says it sounds nice.
My father tells me it had better not interfere
with my homework. I tell him it won’t,
in a voice that’s so ready to leave.
Doors do not slam, but they do not stay open
as I sneak music into the house, as I whisper
my longings to the furniture, my fears
to the ceiling, my hopes to the line of
hallway light that goes off beneath my door.
silent night
stay with me
hold me tight
then set me free
daylight will
blind me still
the child’s dream
not what it seemed
we search for safer passage
we pray our eyes adjust
we cling to all that’s offered
we do what we must
storm outside
thunder warns
deepest fears
since we were born
take me now
show me how
to fight the dark
to find a spark
you are my spark
Who is the you? Sometimes when I’m writing
I don’t know. I am singing out to the stranger
of my songs.
On Friday, Caleb won’t take no for an answer.
We are going out to the club he loves, the one
I’ve always managed to avoid. He wants to dance,
and he wants me to dance with him. I can’t
say no. Even though I dread it, even though
it’s not my thing, I will do it for him, because
he has done so much for me. He asks me what
I’m going to wear, and I tell him I was planning
on wearing what I wore to school. He laughs
and tells me to go home and put on something
a little more clubby. For him, this means tighter.
For me, this means darker jeans. When I go home
to change, I don’t pick up my guitar, because
I know if I do, I might never leave it.
It’s under-18 night at the Continental,
which means there’s no drinking,
except for the few hours beforehand.
I carry a small notebook in my back pocket,
although I can’t see the music coming to me
here. It is too loud. A singer-songwriter
nightmare. Speakers blasting the thump-thunk-thump
of a dance floor mainstay, while the singer belts
the same three lines over and over and over again.
I love this song! Caleb cries, pulling me into
the flashing lights. He looks hot, and everyone else
seems to be noticing. I am lost. It feels like the music
is being imposed on me. I struggle to sway while
Caleb soars. This is his pl
ace. This is the liberation
he’s found. And there is something beautiful about it,
this closed room where boys slide up to boys
and they find a rhythm that defies everything outside.
The music elevates them, takes their cares away
and gives them only one care in return—this movement,
this heat, these lights that turn them into a neon crowd
feverish in their release, comfortable in their bodies
as they leave them in the synthesized rush.
I observe this without feeling a part of it.
Caleb holds me and pulls me into him and I feel
nothing but the ways my body can’t move,
the songs inside that are being drowned out
in this rush. Caleb asks what’s wrong and I say
nothing and keep trying until Caleb senses it again,
says what’s wrong and this time I know what’s
implied—that the something that’s wrong
is me. I tell him I need some water, and when I go
he does not follow.
I get some water and stand on the sidelines.
I watch him and don’t recognize him
as the boy I have felt love for. He is joyous
in his movements, holding and groping and swaying
in time with his new partner. And I know it’s not
that he likes this other boy, I know it’s just part of
the dance, but suddenly I am seeing all the things
I will never be able to give him. I am seeing
that I cannot be a part of the music that sets him
free. And it’s seeing it in those terms that does it,
that makes me fill with loneliness. I will stand here
for the rest of the night, and he will dance there.
He has listened to me for hour upon hour, and so
I have dressed the part, I have made the appearance,
I have tried the groove. But in the end he will say
I closed my ears to him, and he will not be wrong.
I take out my notebook, take out my pen,
but the lines remain empty. I cannot think,
I am thinking so much.
For the first time ever, we drive home in silence.
He is sweaty, ragged, angry, beautiful.
I reach out my hand to say I’m sorry.
He takes it, but gives nothing else away.
That night I go to the basement and play loud
enough to wake the neighbors, but not loud enough
to wake myself. I once read some guy who said
we listen to songs to figure them out, to unravel
the mystery of the words and the tune. I am writing
in order to unravel myself, to find out what
exactly I’m doing, and why.
the windows are closed
but the family’s still inside
lighting candles in the blackout
walking by the glow
I’m singing to myself. I’m singing to him.
I am standing on the street
the lamplights are a darkness
I’ve lost my sense of direction
I have nowhere to go
what do I know?
The next day I return to my bedroom, leaving
only for food, and barely any of that. I sing
the whole day away, playing the guitar
when my voice leaves me, using my desk
as a drum when my fingers start to hurt
from the strings.
the windows are closed
but I can feel you on the other side
from the dark of my bedroom
you’re just out of reach
At midnight I hear someone outside my door,
hovering. I yell GO AWAY in an ugly voice.
The someone goes away without a word,
but the hallway light stays on.
I am pressing on the walls
no stars around to guide me
I’ve lost my sense of direction
falling into the breach
what do I know?
He doesn’t call. I know
he is waiting for me to call.
But I don’t, and I don’t
even know why.
On Sunday my mother finally finds
the courage to stick her head in.
She asks me if everything is okay,
and I laugh.
Monday is the night I am supposed to play at
the open mic. I’m ready to abandon it, but
people keep stopping me in the halls, telling me
they’ll be there. I shouldn’t have come
to school. I see Caleb before history and can tell
he’s upset, or maybe angry, or maybe both.
He asks me what’s going on, and again I use
the least appropriate word, which is
nothing. He asks me if I’m ready
for tonight, and if I still need a ride, and I say no,
and yes. We don’t know what to do
with each other, except make plans.
I stay late in the abandoned stairs
by the auditorium, practicing. I’ll have
three songs to make an impression,
so I play at least a dozen trying to figure out
which three. As I sing, I realize
how much I miss him. As if the boy
who wrote the words is reaching
across time to point me back
in the right direction. He’s saying
either you were wrong when you wrote this, or
you are wrong now. I close my eyes, I sing
a song that was not for a stranger
When I’m in his arms.
I feel that I could fit
in this world
for now.
I feel that I could love
this world
for now.
No other places.
As life embraces.
When I’m in his arms.
In his arms.
and I see him.
There’s no song that says what I have to
say to him, but it feels like a song,
in that it is something I must express—
there are words inside of me that I must
release. He picks me up at the school,
his radio blaring, and when I turn it down
he shoots me a look. And I tell him I missed
him. I tell him I missed him when he was
on the dance floor, and in our silence
ever since. I tell him our music doesn’t
have to be the same, and he tells me
he already knew this, but wasn’t sure
if I ever could. He says he doesn’t know
if he could ever make me as happy
as finding the right word, the right bridge,
the perfect refrain. And I tell him that music
cannot be separated from life, that you
can’t have one without the other, that
he is my love song as much
as anyone can be. But I am still not sure
that I can be his dance. He parks the car and
kisses me softly and says this is the dance
and I kiss him hard and say this is the song.
Because all of the chords are in a crescendo
and he is their source.
When I show up at the coffee place I see
my friends have arrived on time, which is
nothing short of a miracle. It makes me feel
like I belong to something, that somehow
I have drawn these people together to hear me,
because I know they wouldn’t be here together
without me. That means so much.
I am the second act on the list, so while
the first singer torches some standards, I make
a quick dive to the restroom.
When I emerge,
Caleb is waiting for me. I can see he’s nervous
on my behalf, which makes me want to kiss him
again (so I do). He looks surprised, and
before I can ask why, he tells me my mother
is here. And sure enough, I look over his shoulder
and there she is. Without missing a beat, she
waves. I am now nervous on my own
behalf. I ask Caleb what she’s doing here,
and he says I think she’s come to see her son sing.
I hear my name over the low-grade speakers
that have been set up. I hear the cappuccino machine
burping behind the counter, the sound of mugs
settling on formica, the murmur of strangers.
I stand up on the makeshift stage, really just
an area where the tables have been cleared away.
When I look to my side I can see Caleb
standing right there. And when I look to
the makeshift audience, I see my mother there,
a table to herself, nervous, too, and proud.
I tune for a moment and realize the song
I need most is the one I’ve just finished,
the one I played all weekend.
the windows are closed
but the family’s still inside
lighting candles in the blackout
walking by the glow
I am standing on the street
the lamplights are a darkness
I’ve lost my sense of direction
I have nowhere to go
what do I know?
As I sing to Caleb, I know that this song is
no longer about us. Or if it’s about us,
it’s not about now. I turn to my mother
as I hit the refrain
when you hear me,
listen to what I’m saying
when you see me,
look me in the eye
when you know me,
try not be frightened
when you speak to me,
tell me everything
is going to be fine
and the most astonishing thing happens, which at first
I can’t believe—my mother, in her own quiet way,
is singing along.
Her mouth is moving with mine, she knows
How They Met and Other Stories Page 17