It’s no longer morning.
The weight of the day pushes into
my eyes nose shoulders mouth it’s ok
I am going for a walk I am looking for
Alec Baldwin. He has come to me
and my neighborhood to hide inside our rain
no phones no lawyers no sunglasses just
this October heat wave in the city of
Seattle. My name is Tatyana Mishel and
I am searching for Alec Baldwin stowed away
somewhere in my hill-encrusted neighbor-
hood. I am a dolphin in a pod of air
swimming upstream and downstream.
Cars unroll their windows drivers make
eye contact smile like they know something
I wave at everyone hold my breath.

I am sure the sun will out
Alec like a stink bomb in a rabbit hole
he’ll explode from behind the glass of
his bloated middle age TV screen
he can’t hold the pale glare can’t keep
away from the candy dishes in the shops.
“It’s for the kids,” the pharmacist snaps
when I finger a baby Mars bar. “It’s for
Alec,” I reply and grab three pieces.
Striding low to the ground I am a mountain cat
as stealthy as Dick Cheney I am a 21st
century stalker and I feel okay hopping
from bush to bush I will not be tailed.

This Case of Alec Baldwin unfolds
between the hours of 10 am and 2 pm
three hot days before Halloween. I am
a hunter filled with kisses,
chocolate in my pocket I know Alec
has a sweet tooth. I know he’s sweating in
his giant rental all alone throwing knives
at a wall with a mural of Kim, God
I hope his kid’s not there I don’t need
that kind of trouble. “Baldwin, Alec,”
I say into my cell phone and the operator,
female stutters back, “in Seattle?”
I hang up. I have on a pink T-shirt
a cream sweater tied at my waist I am
sporty and I can live with my original breasts
bouncing inside fibrous cotton. What I cannot
have is a nickname. My name is not Tat or Taty
or Tater. I could be Tatyana Baldwin no
Tatyana Mishel Baldwin that’s better.

I’m sick today or that’s the story I told my boss
even though my hair is full of waves my skin is
beige I am generally a brownish tone this is
not Alec’s type but I would be good for him
I’d put him on a diet of salmon and water
get him running let some air out of his body.
Sitting on a corner I try to collect my thoughts
but all I have is a flash of James Taylor
singing Sweet Baby James and shooting
up heroine left right and center. Alec understands
vices. Then: A bleat of sirens, a fire truck in
no hurry rolls by I run behind it yell,
“Are you going to Alec’s, is he OK?”
The beautiful shoulders riding on the back gives
me a princess wave, Oh brother they’re all
gay anyway. By now I’ve walked in a loop,
I have arm pit sweat yes, me, Tatyana Mishel no
middle name no nickname I believe
in circular patterns, standing work stations and Fibonacci
I have walked into the middle of my own personal spiral
call it a womb pattern where I began this pilgrimage
today at the market after hearing whispers
of “Alec” and “around here somewhere,”
so I buy three red dahlias and three peppermint chocolates—
in case his crazy-ass daughter is here, too.