American Coffee

My mother came to the city at 21 And had no choice but to drive to work She said, "I cried in the car every day until I didn't" And when she had me, the midwife Looked her in the eye and said, "Poor baby, you're so scared" I guess I was born anyway What is a home but the place you'll be dying? And what's far away, but places to lose yourself? Myself, I had the choice I left for Northbridge, Fitzroy, Astoria, anywhere but home I moved in with a group of nurses in Collingwood They looked me in the eye and said, "A concept is a brick It can be used to build a courthouse of reason Or it can be thrown through the window" Who would I have been if I'd never gone there? And who is she who faces her fears? I panic behind the wheel, I have sworn to drive again this year I was taught how but I never taught myself to believe Or to run, or cook, or care, or even love All the normal things, I went away I don't know them, I went away I wonder who I'd been if I never got to go Get a fine arts degree and American coffee With irrelevant quotes from French philosophy And we'd meet in the climax of a clever sci-fi movie But that would just be, but that would just be, be stupid I give you that time at the cinematheque I was watching La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc while having a UTI I stared into Jeanne's face, suffering in black and white I'm sure I saw her wink at me Then I peed blood in the lobby bathroom The blood colour seemed so insanely alive Too alive, too alive to be just mine And I felt I crossed paths with a version of me A concept you could say, but not she who stayed behind She who quit everything, music and identity Just left a little blood behind and a fever for me to share There is no courthouse here and no window No bricks are thrown But underneath, underneath us, underneath, underneath us The floor tiles wow and flutter They wow and flutter In this moment, in this moment she has quit