FOR ALEJANDRA

In the Upper-west side
my friend has an apartment.

It is a postage stamp
on this envelope of a city,

a grape in this large horn-of-plenty,

but it is hers, and she lives
in it unapologetically.

The light wood floors
cover the ground like
some oaken quilt,
some unsolvable geometry lesson,
or the tessellating rugs of Alhambra.

The walls are vanilla pudding
and the silver radiator drops from the ceiling
like some bizarre utensil
with which to eat it.

Outside the open window,
the purchased symphony of the city plays.

Nigerian nannies push small white
children in rattling strollers.
Students at a nearby school laugh and scream
and lay the foundations of the edificial lives.
The busses and taxis honk and squeal down Broadway.
Wind shakes the leafless branches of this city’s
concrete trees.

Somewhere, church bells chime
with the hour—the little choir, a small
reminder of the God who still dwells
in these mechanical places.

And a woman, long out of the limelight,
competes with this metropolitan orchestra.
She walks up and down vocal scales
as a mezzo-soprano. Her vibrato vibrates
this small, forgotten opera house,

and in our warm vanilla box seats,
we close our eyes, lean our heads back
and applaud,

our prima donna’s most devoted fans,
tasting small thimbles of joy
in this ocean of a city.

OPEN LETTER TO THE WOMEN WHO WALK IN TENNIS SHOES AROUND THE MALL FOR EXERCISE BUT TAKE THE ESCALATOR BETWEEN FLOORS:

you have fooled no one

MY FATHER'S COAT

I stepped out
last night after
my family had
gone to sleep.

There was already
frost on the windows;
so, I took
my father’s coat.

It had been
many years since
I last wore his
heavy clothes.

Always a blanket
or tent as a child,
my father’s shirts
and jackets would
swallow us whole.

As I took into the
December night, however,
the sleeves fell short,
the shoulders hugged mine.

And I realized that
it was not the coat
that would overwhelm me
as I grew older,

it was the man.

DECEMEBER 24TH

it is a heavy night
a metallic blue
a wind that blows like billowing sheets
a cold pocket watch from a grandparent long dead
a still horse
a silver dollar moon

and the trees shake like impatient children

it is a heavy night
a line from Frost
a loaded gun
silence

THANKSGIVING POEM

I went to the beach for Thanksgiving.
My family, a small band of nomads,
brought popcorn, pop tarts and lemonade
gravy and we sat, as we always do

watching the children as they rise and spin
and tremble with adolescence.

I went to the beach for Thanksgiving
because in the quiet hours I could
sneak down to the sandy shore and
scribble these half-written words,

pulling small pieces of bread out of my pockets
and hoping the small bird of a poem would come.

I went to the beach for Thanksgiving
because it is immeasurable, and I,
artificially large, needed to remember
that I am thankful.

Ocean

I am, once again, drawn into its vastness,
how its rolling waves are a watery canopy,
how beneath there wakes a still unconquered dragon.

I do not think we are deceived by the
ocean’s great depth of wide stretch.
I think we are afraid, rightfully afraid,
at how something so un-owned can still stir.

Reflection

At the gym today
I noticed that the
treadmills all face
the mirrors.

Strange, as most of
us beating the bouncy
pavement are most comfortable
running from reflections.