New York, NY
For months I’ve been curious about a bird
I’ve seen from the train I take to class,
a bird a city kid like me might assume
is a heron or a crane. Might assume
is a sign. They appear every time––
grouped beside the tracks, or sometimes one
all alone in a peat green marsh
& damn if I’m not impressed by the sight
of a marsh amid all this glass,
concrete, riveted steel, rust.
In class as a kid I dreamt up maps.
I designed cities & drew them inside
notebooks, in folders, on any scrap
of paper I could find. I gave my attention
to the streets & highways above
all else. When my school bus took
the interstate, my eyes were fixed
on what blurred past below:
neighborhoods I’d never been to,
neighborhoods my family had left.
By fifth grade we’d moved so much
I grew to love it, so being still
felt like a trap. It was the worst
in church: the endless sermons
I could never follow, the stiff pews,
how futile those fans were. Some
leapt from their seats & some fell
to their knees, mouths suddenly full
of strange tongues. Miss Betty said
they’d caught the spirit & I saw proof
the church needed A/C. I never
thought I needed belief, never had faith
in faith. But before the train emerges
from the tunnel I look forward
to the marsh, the traffic, the birds
I now expect to see, the view of a city
I’m speeding away from, the light.
♦
Words of Warning
after Justin Phillip Reed
Before a screw in the rail broke the skin
on my hand as I told my brother not to open
the door for anyone. I mean before I left
him there alone. Before I told my friend’s
mother I can’t explain why I need
to leave & she said be there soon.
Before I crammed my backpack full
of yes a change of clothes but also CDs,
black pens & paper I could use to write
as in the living room my brother turned
the television’s volume low. Before he sank
back into the couch & before he crawled
from beneath the bed. Before I yelled
Lord I can’t take this or whispered How
long you think we should wait until we
move again. Before that. Before the thud
of footsteps down the stairs receded,
& even before we could hear nothing
but our own held breath, our hearts
beating like impatient fists against doors
as we wondered if the quiet meant
he was gone. Before I began to wonder
if a cough or the way my brother winces
as he tongues a cut in his mouth might
give us away, give a man an idea
of where to aim a gun as he raps his fists
against the window, as his shadow stains
the drapes. Before my brother muted
the television when I said I can’t explain
you just have to hide and urged him
under the bed. It was before I peeked
through the blinds thinking I’d see who
knocked on the neighbor’s door, & locked
eyes with a man in a black hat who waved
a pistol in his free hand. Before we died
laughing at a cartoon hunter foiled again
by a rabbit. Before we heard the dead
-bolt slide into place. Before our mother
said to us, Don’t answer the door
for anyone & left with the woman
who begged for her help on our porch.
Before that knock on the door. Before
we were sure to close every set of blinds
to keep the house cool. Before the news
said it’d be a hot one today. Before drops
of blood appeared in the peaches
my brother ate straight from the can,
its serrated edge snagging the inside
of his lip when he tipped it back to first
down the juice. For him, that was the best
part. Before he went to the fridge, he said
he was in the mood for something sweet.
