She called my writing courageous
I tried to climb inside the word
Wear it like a second-hand jacket
which once held stories that were not mine
but now would only know the slope of my shoulders
and the place my elbows bend
Wanted desperately for it to fit
Turned it over in my hands
Traced all the stitches with my fingertips
sure I’d find it falling apart at the seams
But it was true enough
It fit well enough
No matter how well I know
it’s all about the things
still layered underneath
Sat in a big, bright room alone
A man crooning Spanish over an accordion
played on the sound system
Accompanied by the clinking of ice in my glass and
the sound of my fork on my plate
Behind a curved glass wall
a woman stood making fresh tortillas
When I lived alone in Portland I made tortillas, too
Measured the masa by handful
Added water until I could feel the right consistency
Threw in a pinch of salt
Made balls of dough and
pressed them in that big, wooden contraption
someone must have also made by hand
Cooked them on hot cast iron
Flipped them with my fingers
Just like the Guatemalan grandmothers
on the YouTube videos do
I made piles of them and fed them to everyone
Ate them with nothing but a spritz of lime
Soft tortillas pressed against the flesh of our lips
Cut by the lightest pressure of slippery teeth
We didn’t think about how everything we do is wrong
and it hurts all the time
“I am not fundamentally broken.
Shit. Why can’t I believe it?
What is wrong with me?
Try again. Repeat.
I am not fundamentally broken.
There is nothing wrong with me.
Repeat. Again. Repeat.”
Don’t do anything the way we should.
As if there is a certain set of procedures
we must follow to build
our lives correctly.
Lack enough self-discipline,
enough practice or proof
to believe we’ll be successful—
whatever that even means—
at anything.
“I am not fundamentally broken.
There is nothing wrong with me.”
The words are audible,
breathed heavy in the mirror every morning.
Good ideas, yes.
But not anything we know how to believe.
They drip with sharp reminders
we’ve never done anything to be proud of.
That nowhere has been safe and
there is no hint of permanence.
Every step in the right direction is only
fodder for the inevitable dissolution of
everything we care about.
“I am not fundamentally broken.
There is nothing wrong with me.”
Pound it out in squat racks and afternoon runs.
In the form of sun salutations in 6:30 AM yoga classes.
Notebooks full of letters to no one.
Conversations with dear friends
on walks, in text messages, in emails, and long conversations.
All them offering the promise
we’re doing everything right.
The repetition does not gain traction.
No matter how much evidence
presented to the contrary, we know.
Know we are broken
in all the dreadful locations.
Incapable of making anything beautiful
or worthy of lasting love to
kiss us in the hurt and tender places.
Always looking for something troubling.
Creating problems where there are none
and refusing to let our guards down.
Never had a reason
to do it any other way.
Stuck remaking the reality
presented to us perpetually.
We’re trying.
Harnessed the idea we could
learn to do this different.
But how could we master such a thing?
Our lives eroded by a series of heartbreak.
Separated only by moments of
standing back and looking up.
Shaking our heads and thinking,
“It’s nice, but it won’t last.
Things like that are not made for
people like us.”
Ruby Pipes 