Day of the Dead in the Mall

I don't usually post my own poetry, but haven't updated my blog in a while, and this poem seemed to accomplish what a blog post sometimes does -- random words finding homes next to each other, hoping to write my way through a difficult moment. xxoooo 

Day of the Dead in the Mall

I handed him my phone shrouded in a zip lock bag.

Two days ago, I added tape. A two-inch square

of packing tape, from an orange dispenser that dangles

on a screwdriver that stands in a pink flowerpot turned

pencil cup in the corner of the kitchen. 

Actually rectangle, not square. 

Folding the plastic over and sticking it down

seemed to accomplish more than should be asked 

of a simple act. 

Slit a slash for the power cord to root.

My friend had told me to look for the Russian guy

at the kiosk across from Victoria’s Secret.

Sadig, he said, when I asked his name,

and when I asked where he’s from, he said

it’s troublesome for most Americans to say,

but Azerbaijan.

After I got it quickly he said I could watch

but I told him I would walk around.

I told myself I wanted to savor the mall alone,

looking at other parents with kids flailing about

on the floor and in their strollers and in their arms.

I went to Macy’s because I had fifteen dollars on a gift card

and wanted a big sweater.

Not sure if it had been 30 minutes or 60

I sobbed between Macy’s and the kiosk,

but was ready to pay up and get out of the mall.

When he gave me my phone back.

It felt smooth, not a plastic over broken glass sort of smooth.

Newly put back together again smooth.

I wanted to ask Sadig about his mother

but quickly moved on with my big sweater --

something to cover the grief

that somehow comes alive in the mall.