There's a Shooter on the Train
A trio of does
in the courtyard browse
and pick off
what’s left of the afternoon.
A disturbance—
they lift their slender necks,
ears perked, large eyes focused
on a fourth sprinting into view,
her white tail flashing panic.
Her sisters follow,
abandoning the green in their mouths
for bodies burnished gold.
Stopping to wonder why won’t save them.
They just run
in a panicked stampede towards Penn
Station stopped at 116th.
A tone, the doors open,
prompting an impatient egress,
swelling and pressing for position,
flowing away from the smell of sulfur
staining the tunnel.
Stopping to wonder why won’t save you
from what’s behind.
For now, just run.
Abandon the green in your pockets
for a body blessed
by the sun-baked safety above.
“Why” can come later.
Paludarium
Build your box,
but at least build it nice
with clamber paths parallel to glass,
dripping collective breath and blinding—
but no mind.
No mind to what’s beyond your box.
Build it nice.
Frame with sprays of growth
carefully placed,
as though moss-furred outcrops
have always been there.
Sow yourself amongst sundew,
creeping Jenny, wandering Jew,
down beneath duckweed, neon
nest on surface tension.
Feed sorrows to springtails,
spring through substrate, little legs
push forth seeking
damp relief.
Route 6, All the Way
Kerouac asked, “even now they’re all having a big time,
they’re doing this, I’m not there,
when will I get there?”
Like him, I fall drunk by that hearthside idea;
how wonderful to follow one great red line,
instead of trying various routes and roads.
His Newburgh stopped raining,
while mine waits by the Hudson’s dark and gathering swell,
its stony walks washed and draining.
It took five scattershot rides
for Kerouac to get to Bear Mountain—
sobering news should counter my linear designs.
But I also stand at its great hairy base,
its same dripping eaves and wait.
I still have my tragic route to go.
Light Pollution Doesn’t Love You
The buildings are splayed fingers.
Evening’s ombre seeps through them
and stains the asphalt,
though much of it still rises—
coral blushes peach,
cools to lavender, then a smoky, haloed dome.
Above, celestial forms gnaw holes in the night.
Low-pressure sodium vapors
arrest the compound eye.
Wing scales blur the space
between street and lamp,
straining toward something—
like Apollo toward Daphne,
like Hati toward the moon,
hungry.
Temptation of a Muslim Girl in Her First Pair of Shorts
Sister, it’s so hot.
Girls on campus are in tank tops
and ponytails
and bare legs,
barely anything.
They look the same,
but when my skirt clings
to the sweat coating my thighs, I get it:
Arizona’s official uniform.
Sister, I went to Target last week
and bought a pair of denim shorts.
I swear I’ll only wear them inside.
I swear I’ll hide them
when I FaceTime with Baba.
*
Sister, you won’t believe how they feel.
Tight. They take some getting used to.
Sometimes I’ll find a sunny spot on the floor
and lay there with my bare legs out.
I’ll stay as long as I can
until I’m branded brown
and Sister, it is so hot.
*
Sister, I have to tell you something.
I’m going outside in my shorts.
Tonight, when no one can see me
walking to Subway across the street.
I’ll get a six-inch chicken parmesan
on wheat bread
and a lemonade.
I
I opened the door.
Sister, it’s dark now.
My front porch is soaked in a neon glow
leading the way.
Sister
I need you.
The first step wasn’t so bad,
but there are so many more to go.
Sister, please.
I crossed the street.
The air here is thick with bread.
I recognize some of the girls
their tank tops and ponytails
bare legs,
bare like mine.
Sister
Sister, are you there?
It's so hot.
You’ve Never Eaten a Green Mango
You’ve never eaten a green mango.
You’ve never tasted its tartness,
sliced and soured some more with lemon juice, salt and pepper.
You’ve never felt it slip down your throat
in the summertime, sunning on the driveway after a swim,
your skin reeking of chlorine
and feet broiling on the blacktop.
You’ve never eaten a green mango.
Take it tamarind doesn’t taste like your childhood, either.
Sugar comes in little pastel-colored packets,
already grainy and white when you
find them in the wild.
There’s no need to carry a machete
for cutting coconuts and cane
Stop.
It’s not your fault.
Sitting with your second IPA of the night,
foamy head drooling over and onto the bar,
reflecting the LED gleam.
You don’t deserve this.
No one chooses to grow up with green mangos,
or tamarinds—
or hot dogs and grilled cheese
for that matter.
The kinds of things I imagine
filled the blonde, blue-eyed days of your youth.
Hours ago, we stood outside.
The STARLIGHT sign crackled silver in dying dusk.
With its blacked-out windows,
I said it was probably a strip club.
I was wrong
and I hope I’m wrong about you.
You want to get me in bed, and I want to show you a good time.
I guess they’re one and the same.
So, tell me,
is there fresh pineapple in this Piña colada?
Or could you tell the difference.