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I AM NOT 1989 by Alina Gregorian I am not Lancaster, PA. I am not a rubber band. I am not your nation's capital. I am not fiscally responsible. Nor am I delighted to meet you. But I'd like to start flossing. I'd like to throw arrows at Utah. I'd like to sign my name here. I'd like to tell an ant colony to pack up and go home. I'd like to sew your mouth shut. I'd like to wave a flag on some mountain overlooking some sea. Here's what's going to happen: I'm filling my car with gasoline just to drive over these stones. YOU HAVE THE MOST COURIER EYES You said: Never discuss baseball when waiting for the train. I bought loafers and met you at the docks. You were there, J, with your gloves on your head. I thought youd ask about computers. I thought youd suggest a stroll around the wetlands. I hugged you instead of fixing the gloves, which were falling. The kites have been together for days, tangled and breathless. Have you been to the planetarium, J? Have you seen the tinfoil stars? Everything about your hair reminds me of broken sandals. Do you still want to throw remote controls on the stove to watch them simmer into a mechanical mess? Do you have the urgency to commensurate maps? The need for eloquent apples? I have all the coins we need, J, to reserve the mountains. If you knew how many times birds engrave your name on my arm. Ask me about janitors and their dinner parties. Ask me, J, about your radio. I woke up to a bruise on my left waist, just below my ribs. Thank you, J, for your paraphrases. And if our phones dont work well yell. -- Alina J. Gregorian is a graduate student at The New School. Her poems can be seen in Pax Americana. She lives in Brooklyn NY.