She Was Struggling Against A Current That

My Aunt Used To Say, "it's Between Me And My God; It's Got Nothing To Do With You." It Was A Good Enough Answer For Me As A Snot-nosed College Kid Angling For A Religious Debate, And I Still Think It's A Good Way Of Putting It.

What Used To Help Us To Cope With Transience Was Stuff Like, Extended Families All Living In One Place, Or Very Strong Religious Beliefs, Or A Tribe That Would Outlive You. That Stuff Is Getting Weaker.

I Push Against The Tree And Run Away, Stumbling, The Unreal Night Playing With Me, Gravity Pulling From Below, Behind, Above, Making Me Fall. And I Run Through A World That Is Rotating, Conscious Of The Earth's Spin, Of Our Planet Twirling As It Careens Through Nothingness, Of The Stars Spiraling Above, Of The Uncertainty Of Everything, Even Ground, Even Sky. Mumtaz Never Calls Out, Although A Thousand And One Voices Scream In My Mind, Sing, Whisper, Taunt Me With Madness.

In A Subway Car, My Skin Would Typically Fall In The Middle Of The Color Spectrum. On Street Corners, Tourists Would Ask Me For Directions. I Was, In Four And A Half Years, Never An American; I Was Immediately A New Yorker.

Being A Writer Is Not The Point. Writing Is.