Upon First Meeting You

I’ll tell you right now

that the problem is it’s all autobiographical.

It’s never not, meaning always is.

The lingering past dictates my present day—

My everyday,

my can’t-get-a-cab-whenever-I-need-one-day

my-two-job-two-class-everyday

my-apathetic-want-to-feel-happy-day

my-can’t-feel-aroused-day

my-feel-nothing-about-everything-day.

Clinging to the longing for childhood, still,

my father with his attempt to comfort

states with all his emotional wisdom,

“When you’re a kid it’s easier to not have these

adult feelings of loneliness,”

but I can’t help but wonder when I didn’t feel like this.

When I was five?

Six came too soon and so did

their divorce and at fifteen, her death.

The life and death I can’t get over

may never get over

but hopefully one day the death.

See, even now I’ve let it

climb into this poem.

Uncontrollably me,

The life I wish to emulate and yet be

nothing like.

And upon first meeting you,

if we were to come face-to-face,

I’d never tell you, be polite,

keep it to myself until you ask,

Well what about your mother?

And I usually tell the truth,

but sometimes play along as if

She is still here.

Alexandra Ustach