Time

on this spot by bea mendoza

On 81st,
I give my heart
for him to fondle.

It is the first time I am honest.

On 77th,
I skip alone, feeling brave, but still
overanalysing that l o o k on his face
when my ventricles oozed out something like
w a n t
and something like
n e e d.

My footsteps are followed by
a circular monologue of
“Did he understand?”

On 59th,
darkness rises over the west side of the east coast
but he brings the light,
swaying to a silent beat, he

smiles at me.

It’s an oh shit moment.
Oh shit: I never considered what it would mean to
n e e d
but, oh shit, it’s right there: I can grab it
feel the soft white that we can drown in
and swim in the light that pools around me,
and him.

On 59th,
when he shows up hands empty
I have to assume
my chambers are being ogled at
by New York newcomers:
toddlers pressing against glass, asking for
dinosaurs.

But all they’ll find in their sticky half attention span is
this thing of blood, a slab of meat
pulsing one last time for a soul half-way across town
eating Thai food on Ninth.

Or maybe it’s just forgotten.
Found by the elephants, now
buried in a bin behind a counter
under loose shoes and tiny hats and plastic somethings.

On Columbus,
I take a good look at my memory.
I hold it, gently.
Gently recognising that it is faulty, I say
maybe that l o o k was indifference.

I skip, anyway.

On 23rd,
I lean into a stranger
that I want to grow familiar.
He calls me “dude,”
asks “hey, are you queer?”
And for the first time I don’t mind saying
“Y e a h .”
When he tilts his phone to show me that queer meme
his Instagram lights up the dim cinema and
I consider that he will never know
the knots I untied just to say “y e a h,”
though I chuckle at the screen, I silently Hail Mary, Full of Grace,
and think about Mom,
feeling light.

On 25th,
Dr Noel says this is the happiest
she’s ever seen me, and I tell her that
I no longer know Sadness.
She purses her lips and I continue
to hover over the ground. I’ve yet to land.

On Madison,
I feel the heat and I feel my heart
growing back,
right where it should be,
as it should.
With new blood, the beats don’t recognise his name.
With new blood, I introduce my reflection to my face.

Where I used to wait for the light to change,
I am first to step off of the sidewalk.

On 33rd,
I think about n e e d,
and it’s an oh shit moment
when he asks if we can speak.
When I find him

On 62nd,
he hands me my heart
and says “no thanks.
not right now,”
and despite any footsteps
and new beginnings,
momentarily, I am still the waitress
at a fancy restaurant
waiting to fill his cup.

On 4th,
my hands warm on their own
and the sun sets silently.
In solitude, I can see
the light making movements across the sidewalk,
and up and down my chest.
With my full cavity, I drown out the city
while the streets call out want and need
I take my own hands, and breathe.