whipchick (whipchick) wrote,

The Thing With Feathers

he is ready--he is ready--
dubious but ready
stepping downhill, salt unneeded this season gritting under his feet,
power lines snaking through the trees, ready to strike at any moment,
he is ready.

Yesterday he saw the curve of her jaw through the window of Siam Square,
her lambent white hand lifting a forkful of pad thai.
Last week she stood in line at Rite Aid, her Afro clipped short,
the lines of her cheekbones telling him
I came from Haiti for you.
Last month she swayed on the front of a pride float
at the other St. Patrick's Day parade, her hands plunging into
then shaking out the mane of her red hair.

He eats with Nathan, with Sarah-Michelle, with Will,
he prefers Three to Six.
He does not have parties. He does not have God.
He longs for a breakup restaurant, a place he can't go any more,
a place he'd be sure never to see her again.

Once she came around the corner,
running towards him in a red dress,
but it was Anna Paquin guesting on Law and Order.
When the director called 'cut',
it sliced the corner of his heart.
Am I still alive? he thinks in the morning, mildly surprised at another day.

He walks without looking ahead, without looking back
(When you've seen the North Tower fall, you stop looking back)
She catches the corner of his eye--
She is a bright scarf crossing the churchyard of St. Paul's.
She is choosing woven orange placemats in Clearance at CB2.
Chambers Street swirls around her as she stands
at a fruit cart, gently smelling the rind of a kiwi,
His heart in her hand wearing also its own soft shroud.

whipchick hopes that part of ellakite still hopes.

Tags: ljidol, poetry
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