Inside, Outside

If I could learn to habituate, it would be easier to cross the street. I would have a layer over my flesh that says, this is outside, this is inside. When I looked at the sign on the subway car, it would seem perfectly insignificant. The eyes on the faces of strangers would not pop out at me. Everything would be equally devoid of meaning. I would sit there on my little red seat, music in my ears, and the world would not bang along with its giant drum. And when I headed home, I would be protected from the salience of a cardboard box on a front yard. I would not particularly care that the box was filled with toys that had been chewed by a toddler and grasped by a five-year-old. And when I was mindful, as I would try to be, each breath would plummet into oblivion, sliding away from me into the already gone place I rarely think of. And I would not notice the tempest from the other world. And the invisible hands upon my shoulders would be forgotten in the midst of the next project. It would be good to be alive, because it would be quiet. And I would carry on with my life, doing the things I am expected to do. Meeting people at parties and writing my name next to my profession. I would be considered healthy and well-adjusted, because I would not feel the cries of the world deep within my flesh. My psychiatrist would say, you are doing well. I would score low on every deviance test, and the label behind my name would be crossed out in yellow ink. This seems like something to strive towards.

I practice separating inside, outside by sitting beside a stranger on the streetcar. Teach me your ways, I say. But he does not notice, as he digs his fingers inside his pocket, trying to find something that he lost. It is small and red and has four holes poked in the middle. A button, perhaps? I tap his shoulder, and smile. Is this what you are looking for? His eyes open into wonder, as they fill with button. I can feel him tremble wide open on his little red seat. And I don’t ask what it is about this small circular object that seems to fit the whole world inside. It’s rather big, isn’t it? The button. He nods, his eyes fill with tears, and we agree it is best to exhale slowly and say nothing at all.

Ten months later, I exit the subway with a mask. There are no more parties, at least not the inside, inside kind. The salience of strangers’ footsteps sounds a global alarm. The danger of an outstretched hand now sanctioned by the state. There are so many of us now. The maladjusted. And the cries of the world, well, they are harder to erase. She could be anyone, but she is not. She is unprotected, like me. Her exposed heart a safety hazard the world needs. We brush eyes on the stairway, and she feels me blush. I search for something to stand on, but fall deep into her gaze. The sound of her footsteps echoing against sound and shadow. I carry the memory of our silent collision inside me, as sunlight hits my eyes. She walks away, almost turning back. Her heartbeat quickening the space around her. Yes, it is. I mutter. Yes, it is very big.

~ An earlier version of this poem appeared in Minola Review Issue 28