There is a spot in my living room,
now home to the end of a soft blue couch,
that once was bare.
It was there we danced on New Year’s Eve
to a Mariah Carey song
I admitted to you always made me cry,
and by danced I mean
we stuck our socked feet firmly
to the old wooden floor
and swayed like December palm trees,
leaves laced together, rooted but light.
It was my favorite dance I’ve ever done.
The old woman behind me
in Sunday morning spin class
has dozens of gold
from her delicate elbows
to her relaxed wrists
which she’s showing off
to the young woman
on the spin bike next to her.
She is half the size
of my right thigh,
not one bit on pace
with the class
reading the newspaper
while pedaling slowly.
The rest of us are
grinding away at our energy;
she just keeps on pedaling.
His cigarette was sweet,
as the smoke weaved over the rusted
wrought iron fence and slid through
the cracks between the double glass doors,
while I waited for a delivery truck.
The leaves curled over themselves
curling over the welcome mat,
exactly the way it smelled to drink
hot beer in the square in Krakow,
but on a Saturday afternoon in Queens.
It’s summer, and I still live at
home. As we roll and rattle down the
Mass Pike, in a car older than any of its
three passengers 150 miles from my own
suburbia, I watch as the tops of the trees
engulf the sky in the low dusk light
like stagnant black smoke, and I think
about how much bigger the sky looks here.
I’m listening to your laughter bounce from
the windshield to the backseat and back
again, and as per usual I don’t know what
you two find so funny but I can say with
absolute certainty all I want is to bottle your
giggles, film you cackling so hard there are
delicate lines of mascara tracing trails down
your cheeks, and to watch you both catch
moonlight between your fingertips forever.
I looked at
had guided me
so many times,
on my face,
one ounce of
I fixed my
light of the
it was over
a whole world
the ceiling fan
as it grows
off the mountain
I’m afraid to
very end of
in my mind.