Metro Route 90

It rains in that moment of quiet
When I lie and tell myself I won’t judge
(fitting for this Day of Judgment night)
I over-stimulate on a simple walk,
Soberly searching for objective answers.
I am the branch of a tree and I welcome harsh wind and soft rain,
With my roots buried and protected
Underground and underneath sidewalk,
Few things can find their way to me, subjectify-me.
Across the Duke Ellington Bridge, the 90 Bus route, by foot.
Upside-down, orange-grease stained Paper plates, get out of my way!
Humble in their weight,
I watch them shift tectonic plates from the burden of these bodies,
Faceless in fleeting moments of this city’s life.
Sitting on this ground you wave a drunken hand in my face,
And I think,
‘You should respect me
Because I’ve been here longer.’
But the only way to know that is to love this city,
And the only way to love this city-
If you want to love it at all,
Is by the rhythm of your own footsteps,
Move right, left, right, dodging and embracing.
I’m getting wet.
I will pass the two loving hands in front of me and offer my own to the warm fall breeze and rain,
And walk faster.
And the man at the bus stop talks about his non-parents,
Betrayal,
Pain,
And the strength to overcome challenges he didn’t ask for,
As if the Man put Roadblocks on his path the moment his head saw the fluorescent light he should soon come to know as natural,
He sends riddles with his eyes,
Asking me to marry?
Jumping into his arms I say yes! And we elope that very night…
Just kidding,
I used to believe in moment’s love,
Until two years have passed and I can only hope in love that lasts longer than that.
You might be the exception- you overgrown town,
The roots of me entangled in your world-below.
Above ground- Raindrops on my head.
And I wrap my pashmina
Like my great-great grandmother did
In her city
That city she cold never love,
She could only leave.
Two refugees from a city that wouldn’t love them back
Because at the moment of their birth,
Some He with a capitol ‘H’ put Stumbling blocks in front of them,
Them! The ones born without eyes?
And they wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘One wife and a gun,’
As the story goes.
My star of David story.
And it rains.

Bleeding for the Anocostia

I dreamt you rolled your sleeves
To bare flesh I didn’t recognize,
Your arm I once knew so well!

In those days we were linked,
Mind, body , spirit
In Sync.
Our blood pumped
side by side, mixed
potion
Flowed into one red, heart-shaped ocean

But the flesh you bore last night
Was unrecognizable.

Red vertical lines had your arm in a chokehold.
Red mourning plight.
I had no words.
Like a lonely bird
I thought of you,
Alone,

No one to lift you out of your drowning.
No one to save your arm, covered in skin so pure
Like snow white.
I should have known something so red and sweet would poison
You
Silent
All
The
while.

But if you would have screamed!
I would have rowed the red river to your heart and rescued you.
I scream for both of us and wake myself up, sweat soaked, in bed.
I dress and bike to the river,
Expecting deep red lines webbing themselves around her so that
Beauty is disguised, life- invisible.
But there is no red, only concrete shades of tan
A fishing net
Black wire
Concrete paths
Brown dirt spots the cement playground
At least a red sea would have been a sign of recent life
Recent cycles,
So predictable, only man can break
Only man can tear our linked arms apart.
Only man can make you ugly
Can poison your purity.