City poems
Both of these were mainly about strangers.
Full
"See? That's what makes you beautiful,"
The man on the bench said to his friend.
Maybe he meant me.
The man in the hat
that we passed
moments after we hit
uneven sidewalk
and I flew like a comet
in my silver dress,
hovered like a raincloud
on my black-gloved hands.
I was pulled up by my arms
poured liquid back into place.
I recovered my face
Adjusted my body
Fanned out my fingers
like a grand finale.
When I saw that man
I tossed him lips and teeth-
A full sun and coffee
Lost in the city and
happy unbroken smile.
He caught it by blinking,
swallowing with bright green eyes,
Telling me he approved.
The Crowdsurfer
He is Glad Day in a red shirt
and he is falling, falling
Blond hair catches gravity
and he dips back, back
I seize breath and sweat
He looks crucified
Until he is caught
by an ocean of palms
They push him along
They are a vein
He is hot blood
He is beautiful, beautiful
for one clean moment
Then he swallowed
by the crowd.
This is an older memory:
Still
It is March
that month green and hard
like a frozen pea
We are sixteen.
Mary rolls down the window
as I know her to do
To free her hair
To free her skin.
I wince
Ready for cold air
to bite me
into submission
and yet I feel
nothing.
I open my eyes
Blinking,
giving the pink light pollution
butterfly kisses.
Grabbing joyfully
at the air so still
and full
it is another person.
It is March
that month gray
with promises and dust.
We are sixteen
and my father
is caught
in rush hour
in the city.
But Mary and I
sit dreamily
waiting for the air
to kiss us back.