Friday, February 27, 2009


so this past December I met my family out in NYC for a holiday weekend.  To top things off my best friend and husband were there that very weekend and so we (my manrock and I) got a chance to act like a young, childless couple again and went dancing at some super hip, trendy club whose name I forgot with the first sip of vodka and soda.  The next night we saw dinosaurs and the Nutcracker and really had a great time.  Went for Sunday brunch at Barney's and even squeezed in MoMA and climbing trees in CP.  it really was tops but then I had to read the Times...and came across a horrifyingly sad story of random murder in Brooklyn.  This is the poem it inspired:
walking down the street
dripping from the trees
born on rooftops
looking over Brooklyn
the sweet caress
of songs borne in my soul
binding together
in my flesh
the sticky tacky
melted asphalt
that make the rubber trees
which bind my feet; today
go squishe, squish, squishey
in the summer heat
whose bark upon which 
my childhood swung
the cool reprieve
of concrete tub
and icy mountain stream
felt like this city does; like honey
sweet, sweet Brooklyn honey
which lingers on my tongue tonight
a night which lingered on too long
when honey was my world
a night like this sustained 
by family
and friends
but here, tonight, a million shadows
my sweet company; my only taste of honey
past the hops
and cheap sugar cane
my brother's arm
around me
binds me
within a molasses grip
like honey
until the wildness
in the lines
of buildings built
after my time
swarm around us
the smell of rubber (trees)
in my nose
the taste of honey on my tongue
and like a troop
of hybrids
with one intent
far, far from honey
stinging with wooden splinters
speaking in a nonsense tongue
they pulled me, stretched me,
yanked me, Yankees
out of life
before abuelita made it 
off the plane
before  I knew the names
of nieces yet to come
but not before I tasted
the seet warm honey on my tongue
and held it up into the stars
and gave that sweetness of the clover, 
never bitter though it's mowed
to all who're yet to follow
and who, because of me, will know
that life
is all it is, 
yet still is

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