Airport Poem
I’ve finally begun to understand time,
its quirks and dashes, its slow arc, like
the belly of a cat sunning itself
in my living room.
Time is simple, just not something
I had ever noticed, like the way
a poem, folded into fours, fits
so nicely into a sandwich bag.
Or how a heart is lifted
when sandwiched between others
in the backseat of a car.
This time, something was missing.
Your knees weren’t sticking up
awkward
as beanstalks in the small space behind the dash.
You’d been gone for days, I was left
with a crossword to stare at, trying to
match the names and dates, losing track
of how many ticks make a minute.
In first grade, a teacher made us
put our heads down, and raise a hand
when we thought a minute was up.
We were both wrong.
I was wrong again—I didn’t realize EWR
meant Newark. When your flight came in,
I was still in bed, late to rise again.
I flurried to the car, forgot
my watch. If it weren’t for the clock radio,
I still wouldn’t know how long it took
just to greet you at the airport.
Unlearning How to Walk Through New York City
I pull the rush from each step like weeds, to
end this relentless curiosity
that sprouts from old sidewalk cracks, begging for
answers that these alleys cannot offer.
My legs are ready to journey, to leave
this urban life behind and settle down
south, ready to set down the nightly wail
of sirens for floating songs of bullfrogs.
I want to see trees take over, reclaim
their own lost wood, vines jointed like fingers
that spread across burnt shingles, vines pulsing
like arteries and veins, always growing.
Down new streets I will step without tripping
mosey slow, heart never skipping a beat.
Today, Like Every
Other Day
In the strange quiet that hangs over city streets
in early morning, we hold hands and run across
wrinkled sidewalk, hollering at bakers, leaping over
stacks of newspapers left for sleeping store owners.
The dark runs through us, propels our hands
and feet like the breeze, tossing loose our hair
and drying out our eyes, our bodies dashing blind
over each hill, falling forward into the wind.
Next time, let's run away for good. We can leave
with nothing but necessities, meet beneath
sycamore trees—pick the street and we’ll push
this earth into motion with the soles of our feet.
I'll bring fresh coffee beans, and every morning
will be brighter than the last.
Midcity Blues
A breeze blows back our hair as boughs bow down
to acknowledge our presence, the gift of longing
is knotted in the joints of our fingers like twigs
clutching at handlebars. We allow ourselves to let
wind direct us, as if sails sprung from our backs
and set us on open seas with no trees, none of these
gnarled oaks reaching out low and wide to embrace
the world, no Spanish moss like seaweed suspended
in air, gray kites on fishing line swaying, slow
ballerinas
shifting into plies, waving to welcome us awkward
creatures as we peddle down cracking streets,
passing slow beneath the sweeping oaks.
di Scienza
Signor, you saw more in stars than this world
could ever consider. You took Taurus
by his horns and turned him flat on his back,
into more than a map across the night.
You drew spheres of gas from his hooves, twisted
a comet from his tail that shot from stars
straight across white pages of science books.
Signor, I wish you had stayed to teach me.
I would love to buy you brandy, burnt wine
no matter how hard the Catholics would fight
I’d help you win. I know we turn, e pur
si muove, this earth turning all the same.
I know the treachery of seeing things
are really there, while the world looks away.
Sketching
The sun sets on home first, darkening
the east coast, the houses we grew up in.
Silhouettes rest against the dusk that
settles in slow, specked with fireflies.
We chased these flecks of gilt across
our mothers’ lawns, small feet slipping
with hands cupped around small lanterns,
beacons marking our place in this world.
Since then, we have scattered, settled
into small houses with dust for lawns
and the glowing tips of cigarettes
burning red as pushpins on a map.
I sketch a map beneath the soles of my feet, in dirt
my toes trace a heart around the name of your city.
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