Ode to the City

Ode to the City

In the rear-view mirror
grey and brown smog
thickens.
The skyscrapers
are a breath,
exhaled.
I drive over
the tattooed concrete
of the River, before
I can turn
my head.
Brake lights
loosen
like un-
braiding hair.
The road,
daisy petals,
unfold.
I love you, I love you not

I belonged to you
Like a middle child
And you
Belonged to me
Like the worn soles
Of my tennis shoes.

I push you out the windows,
you will fall
because all I see are fields.
Sidewalks end
again and again
in green.
Traffic is a stop sign.
There are no gates,
no fences,
no walls cuffed with barbed wire.

I do not miss
your clenched-teeth
streetlight,
helicopter searchlight,
motion-censor garage light,
keys-between-my-knuckles
nights,
but the crowds,
voices overlap,
songs escape open car windows,
ice cream trucks meander,
flip-flops and high heels
cross the street at the intersection.
The weeds, the tree-roots smuggle
their way up
through the asphalt
to find the sun
to whisper to me, to trip
me into seeing myself.

You hold a certain shape,
held me in my place.
The outline of me
is still your silhouette like
the yellow peels of light
around the curtained
windows at night.

My skin no longer
smells of you,
my heartbeat out-of-sync with
your stop-and-go rhythm.
I am afraid
this Green Spaciousness,
the tap water
the streets dotted
with strangers’ smiles
have left me
shapeless.
Without your
brick, cinderblock, glass, concrete arms
I am pouring out the seams,
I am water
lost
in
the sky.