September in Manhattan
.
Bursts of green and the odd chicory
Braving their way through cracks
in the concrete. Bits of Mary O’s famous
scones scattered for sparrows, their song
Lost under the hum of chatter. Tompkins
Square, once a thicket of elms and protests,
now a canopy where oak and sycamore filter
the afternoon light. The stifling scent of
tobacco smothers the petrichor that drew us
all here. For what is the draw of this viridescent
oasis if not its untouched natural majesty? A
flurry of faux coughs, a reminder of Tompkins’
rebellious roots, and those defiant chicory. Against
all odds, Manhattan is in bloom.
.
.
.
Water Memory
.
On an island in the middle of nowhere, did Dad
First emerge to the outside
His dark brown skin no longer bad
If anything, a matter of pride.
.
Think of it: never-ending blue skies,
A confidently black spot on the map
Only known for the shallowest of lows
And the headiest of highs.
.
If he stared too long, it would wrap
Him up in its perfectly golden sand
And its intoxicating earthy scent.
I wish I could have held his hand
Through the trials that life outside the island sent.
.
For it is a blessing and a curse to escape—
To fly and gallop and bolt and scram—
From the shackles of the home that was left agape
By a too-dark too-tall too-large man:
My gentle giant, only understood in the embrace
Of the faraway land kept alive by my mind
In the silence consuming the space
He left behind
.
I have missed him since the day the island
Claimed him, all of him,
My teller of tales, at peace in the sand
That claimed him, all of him.
