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.