i in new york (quarantine blues) by eva gelman

i. in new york, 
lost in the global 
the positioning 
the system 
the wrong turn i take 
takes me to the city 
(i read that new yorkers 
say the city 
when they mean 
manhattan) 
and i 
say the city 
when i mean 
away from you. 

i. 

i. in new york 
and my skin aches 
from the sharpness 
of the august air. 

i. on an island 
in another universe 
and it’s made of shells 
sharp towards me. 

i. on an island 
and there’s a storm--- 
i can’t climb out of the 
sea, and my daddy 
is drowning, 
and the waves 
are hitting. 

i. in new york, 
and i’ve ncver felt 
this alone. though i’m 
at sea, my skin is dry 
and flaking. 

i.

i. alone 
it’s nearly eight, and i’m sitting on a fallen tree trunk
by the highway, 
facing west. 
the sun is setting somewhere behind the clouds, where you are
or maybe it isn’t, 
or maybe you aren’t. 
and maybe this loneliness is just a placeholder for another loneliness
though i can’t decide 
which one is which. 
and in the dusk, 
i see a lightning bug flicker 
flying slowly, low like 
ripe fruit. 
i catch her in my hands and 
hold her, carefully 
give her my arm 
and fingers 
and every piece of flesh 
i own. 
i know, eventually 
to let her go 
though secretly i hope she’ll stay. 
guiltily, she flies from my fingertips 
and to the rim of my glasses 
looks back at my sallow face. 
then leaves. 

i. 

i. the red smoke on the road; 
i. the hole in the wall; 
i. the ant; 
i. the giantess; 
i. the piece of shit; 
i. in new york, 
alone and ill 
with hope 
and hopelessness 
in the same breath.