Verbs

I am the child raised by the village. 

I once screamed my way through the entire Tower of Tower ride, one hand wrapped in my

companion’s hair. 

Bought a house, lost it in a completely unexpected breakup, and bought another. 

Made snowcones in a small, deafening, pink machine sold for the purpose. 

Stood, not breathing, in the street below a sukkah, listening to Sukkot prayers.

Retrieved the lifeless body a child from under a train. 

Spent way too much time in Goodwill – repeatedly. 

Got dumped over the phone. 

Stacked and restacked cans of orange juice concentrate in a play refrigerator next to the

avocado green one in my parents’ kitchen.

Fell in love with a British woman I’d never met. 

Laughed when someone fell (correction, every time someone falls, even if it’s me). 

Screamed at my mother until the veins in my neck stood out. 

Had my poetry reviled by Audre Lorde.

Zip-lined over Fremont Street in Las Vegas.

Lost my faith, and had it handed back to me by a small, blonde detective. 

Breathed life back into someone’s grandfather. 

Dressed as the Dirty Old Man from Laugh-In, hid in the girls’ bathroom, and scared the crap out of Miss Vergona, my eighth grade teacher. 

Got gas in Prestonsburg, KY from a guy who looked just like Dale Gribble.

Set fire to the floorboard of my olive green 1979 Chevette, racing up Linden Blvd.

Watched my father dissolve in tears telling me that Buttons, my beloved German Shepherd had died. 

Asked for a miracle.  And got one. 

Graduated with honors. 

Spun around and around until dizzy. 

Stood at the top of Chimney Rock. 

Helped my mother out the door of the funeral parlor after she said goodbye to her mother. 

Prayed for strength. 

Felt safe enough in an all-girls Catholic high school to come out to a nun, who told me, “Never be afraid of the questions.”