The Distance, Hailstorm
The Distance
On the subway platform, that man
with tissue stuck to his chin once lived
at the crux of another woman’s
dreams. She knew him in the bitter
back of her throat, femoral pulse,
pop of her ovaries. But now,
between them, clear cut
of forests, parking lots, hinterland
where generations live entire lives
and are buried. If only we
could meet where nobody else
touched us. For you, I cross
tracts of burnt-out buildings,
boiling seas, but call them
by their right names:
husks of your mother, my father,
affairs curdled by so many sins.
That man pumping gas, marked
by a scrub of black hair,
once lit his lover’s whole body
like morning. You ask whether
I believe people are basically good,
but I am the new pink skin
edging the cut: I say yes.
Hailstorm
Thrown down on Cornelia Street,
hail pelts awnings, bounces up
pant legs, the sky churning
and lidded with clouds.
The crowd rushes into
the subway mouth on West 4th.
Newspaper held over
our heads. Unread headlines
pummeled to sodden mush.
Ice melts to rivulets down
arms and legs, flows into gutters.
We are people in a panic,
laughing in the yellow lamplight
before it flickers out. We are
drowning, like our ancestors
before us, the children to come.
Scientists don’t know why the sky
backlights itself in hailstorms,
where that sea-green glow
so like the earth’s pulse
comes from. Wind blows
up and inside my jacket,
buffets me like the raindrop
of five minutes ago,
swinging up in the atmosphere
to freeze and refreeze.
It grows from pea to peanut,
walnut to hen egg, the grapefruit
we also use to measure tumors.
I have never been colder in my life.
That too will be forgotten.
