Lately, I have trouble even saying my own
name, like a wooden block in my mouth,
the splinters never gone.
The buildings of Harlem stretch silently upward,
bearing up the blank night, lit windows like
confetti tossed into darkness. The river swirls
and pushes salty water up the East River, heavy
in its banks. The train ratchets over the bridge,
lights flicker, and the new moon hides her face,
while mine is pressed to the dirty glass, looking.
Now, windows will only reflect what’s inside:
scraped floors and dirty upholstery,
seven blank faced travelers.
Isn’t this what you have always wanted?
—each thing you left
shrinks into darkness,
a life apart,
everywhere left to go.