Never
been to New York City.
Not
exactly, well once, trying to get to Connecticut,
on a freeway we were lost
but Ron said “you’d better look now
‘cause you’ll never come here with me again”.
I
thought I “always” wanted to go
be anonymous
on a street of thousands
cloth myself, oh so fashionably,
a pair of red high-heels clicking on the sidewalk.
Wander into the Flatiron Lounge.
Sip a
cocktail (or seven) with Kim
Cattrall
discuss the pleasure ofan elegant 12th floor apartment,
complete with sex in the city,
my breasts resplendent – no curtains on the widows,
to come to the thrum of a sleepless place.
But, my friend, I’m here,
black Sketcher tennis shoes,silent on the wooded path,
my favorite jeans, the ones with the hole I patched
(because I’m not ready to give them up)
an iron-on blue star right on the thigh
above where my next tattoo will go.
Reliable denim guards my legs, ankles, genitalia.I drink from a shaded spring,
talk with the oriole, a big voice tree frog,
gage the board feet of sycamore and beach,
pillow my head on white tipped moss.
I know the twigs and fern
as well as they know me,
listen to the hum of morning as
it sings its earthen chant
into my blood, into the familiar river
into my womb.,
