I kept the night open
I ate pork buns from the Chinese bakery, open
until 8 o’clock, 9th Avenue an opening

to the park, walked from the Muni stop,
grass paths and tulips closing, the sun low in the sky’s open

umbrella. I licked what was left of the sticky dough
from my fingers, filling myself with inconsequential openings

I wouldn’t peer out of. At home I drew lines on paper with marker pens
while staring at an album cover opened

too soon to return, stereo instead of mono a mistake.
All the time in the world opened

between inhaling smoke
from a pipe’s open

bowl and cooking a pot of refritos, yet little time remained
for deboning a chicken, thigh sinews like glue stretched, a thin opening.

I ran three miles every day on the paths or along the Great Highway,
waves spraying my t-shirt, yet I saw no way to open

muscles to freedom. When I called
my father said, come home, open

the door from the man I’d least expected
and I knew he was right even though I couldn’t open

the answer. How could I live like this,
he was really saying, cupboards opened,

coffee grinder opened, bass notes on my roommate’s stereo
pounding the apartment. And I knew he was right. He was open.

I wore stockings
The temp agency waved rules at us
like a green white racing car flag
my dress length just below the knee
hiked up above to reveal stubble
spiked through sheer fabric
a second skin.

I never shaved my legs
against old ways thickened
where men wore trousers and women
radiated, birds with beaks
that could be broken
in one motion.

Yellow panels came down on me
for going against, wearing too much
or not enough
accused
of sideways eyes.

The train took me across the Bay
to the high rise office, all glass
Coit Tower, Treasure Island,
gold deco building
in four different directions

and I wanted to turn
instead of waiting for phone calls
so I could write down
on the tiny slip
all the particulars with puckered lips.

This abundance, this perfect
ligament of time
could not break
or my stockings would tear,
and I would turn wise.