my father, my friend

On Love and Ritual Gone Awry

Spring 1982, in front of the Shalimar Diner, Queens NY

If it is possible to hold one’s breath for fifteen years, we did.

We took in oxygen in small sips, as if to make it last, like one would drink water while crossing The Sinai on foot.

There were silent meals in Queens with tension pulled as tight as a tuned guitar string, remedied by the appearance of …