On the M104
(New York City Public Bus)
The
longing we know that does not have a name
may be for our lost twins, our cellular siblings
who flaked away from us
only days after our conception.
Like a singular petal tugged from its floribunda,
most of us were left alone in our planet-wombs,
gravity-less balloons, loose space suits. Galaxies of mother
around us, we slept the way I still like to:
my back nestled against someone else's chest,
my knees bent and at rest on his
as though I were sitting in a chair
but my weight askew, pulled away to a 90-degree angle.
No wonder, regardless of who it is,
love is what I feel every time.
He is my lost one, my lost twin,
the dolphin, the underwater uterine-angel
who loved me regardless, who continued
to swim up against me, whether I pulled away or not.
I miss him the way a soldier
has a phantom itch on the elbow
of his amputated arm. I look into mirrors
and dress up as someone else.
Our lost Gods are so hard to find
though they are as many
as the flakes of novelty confetti
that snow from a bridal shower bell.
Or the pastel dots
that rise to the roof and multiply
on this city bus
as the sun hits a stone
on some piece of jewelry a passenger is wearing.
The magic blinks away as we turn the corner
and a building's shadow takes over.
We all check our watches
and bracelets, wondering which one of us
could have been the source
of such beauty. The travelers who saw
look at each other to confirm.
Our lost Gods, so hard to find --
their appearances so short, their bodies so small.
may be for our lost twins, our cellular siblings
who flaked away from us
only days after our conception.
Like a singular petal tugged from its floribunda,
most of us were left alone in our planet-wombs,
gravity-less balloons, loose space suits. Galaxies of mother
around us, we slept the way I still like to:
my back nestled against someone else's chest,
my knees bent and at rest on his
as though I were sitting in a chair
but my weight askew, pulled away to a 90-degree angle.
No wonder, regardless of who it is,
love is what I feel every time.
He is my lost one, my lost twin,
the dolphin, the underwater uterine-angel
who loved me regardless, who continued
to swim up against me, whether I pulled away or not.
I miss him the way a soldier
has a phantom itch on the elbow
of his amputated arm. I look into mirrors
and dress up as someone else.
Our lost Gods are so hard to find
though they are as many
as the flakes of novelty confetti
that snow from a bridal shower bell.
Or the pastel dots
that rise to the roof and multiply
on this city bus
as the sun hits a stone
on some piece of jewelry a passenger is wearing.
The magic blinks away as we turn the corner
and a building's shadow takes over.
We all check our watches
and bracelets, wondering which one of us
could have been the source
of such beauty. The travelers who saw
look at each other to confirm.
Our lost Gods, so hard to find --
their appearances so short, their bodies so small.