. . . landing (in madrid).

twice or three or four times removed from home now:
I guess I've lost count.
I miss the relative comfort of new york city
its persistent noise and confusion
in a language I understand.
the smoke and the grease--
those east village hipsters.

here, it's beautiful.
the buildings, the dogs, the fountains, the sky,
the people are breathtaking.
walking statues.
all of this city is a fashion show.
if only Michael Kors were here to judge it
more creatively than I ever could.
so many people, but I am here
alone with my thoughts,
discomfort, mosquito bites, indecision,
and all the world feels big and old and uncertain,
heavy and awkward as if I am exploring it
in a set of someone else's stiff, too-large clothes
waking up in their bed,
the smell unfamiliar and the sheets the wrong texture.
at the restaurant, somehow I end up with
six assorted mini sandwiches for lunch
anchovies and eggplant,
and a beer.

my phone still thinks it's in queens. I have no watch.
It is morning but I have not slept.
I am walking and I am wearing black.
it is noisy and bright but
I fall asleep
no, sleep takes me by force,
in the grass by the row boats at the park,
and Spanish words fall to the ground around me.
If only I could pick them up and make sense of them.
put them in the right order and demand
that they speak plainly to me.
I dream of tornados and floods and someone chasing me
I need to save someone, but I don't know how
so I just stand there, trying to scream.

my clothes are damp when I awake
unsure how much time has passed
and the people sitting cross-legged or lounging around me
have changed entirely.
It is still bright.
The sprinklers come on,
and I realize I'm wearing the same thing I was
the last time that happened.
at the art museum. do you remember?
My third cortado of the day
provides a false sense of alertness.
I wander, stumble-- that was a step--
trying to take it all in.
so much beauty,
I don't know where I should go
or what to eat, or how I should even find out.
I won't have anyone to kiss at sunset.

All I can say is please, thank you, coffee, hot,
and I'm sorry. . .
I'm sorry, I am.

So I walk. and I write. and I drink.
And I reach for your hand.
I wish you were here to point me in the right direction
to hold me up on the train
face to face
your arm strong across the middle of my back.
I wish you were here to find ways
to make me blush when nobody is looking
to tell me it will be ok.
I climb the green and white tiled staircase
and walk out onto the terrace.
they are protesting down below,
and I want to join them.
soar down to hold a banner and march march march,
disappear into the crowd
fly down for a cause, for an afternoon
fly down, or not. just fly. just go.
where will I land? will I land?

I press Damien Rice into my ears
and begin to breathe.
to think about which dogs and babies
I'd most like to have
big and Spanish, respectively.
or maybe reversed.
I imagine being a mom in a city like this one.
too pale, and too American
but I push a dark-haired baby in a stylish tram.
she coos in Spanish,
and I have learned to chatter in Spanish
with someone tall and handsome
saying much much more than lo siento.