Theresa, I Miss You (Space, Steps)
Theresa, I miss you. The museum took us for all we had, an admission paid for in full resentment. It’s true, parataxis is not enough. All remains are black and white; didactics gesture without moving. You wrapped your eyes with stenciled cloth. The charming discomfort of space, of steps. I didn’t know how to stand beside him.
Theresa, I miss you, beginning to come to you. I hurry through; we take it outside. A week later, the divided Koreas begin a careful theatrical run. Holding hands, they step over the border. Holding hands, they step back. The moment loops.
Theresa, I miss you, an echo or trill. I see them in the audience: your brother, your sister. I can’t relate, but we all identify. They keep your edges, standing guard. In the park on the hill, Berkeley imprints.
Theresa, I miss you, the moment loops. I’ve had this line in my head for weeks, but all it means is I miss someone else. All it means is I miss someone else. But when the figures step over the imaginary line, I feel a cracking splits the solid. What could I want? How will you answer? In the end, the page keeps to itself. You are not my dream. But I move into the space, keeping track.
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Author photo courtesy of author
