Mist

On the west side running path
mist-ghosts disappear into the future

or rise to the surface as an impression
of color, or the outline of a limb,

wafting close enough that I can see
the ballooning of ribs sweaty
with effort

and the sinking again
of the ribs behind the spine—

& then the figures drift, sails half-filled
with wind, back into grey

*

The man in black shorts is not too much faster—
a slow erasure into fog

while my breath grows shallow
trying to catch him. Always,

I think I know this shape.
If I could get close enough to see

his face, I would lock eyes, ask
let me keep up.

*

Mist covers my feet,
fills my lungs.  The sound of water

knocking the dock as keen

as sounds from my mouth,
hiss of air in

& wheeze as breath leaves
me, leaves me, leaves
me

Match

The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher; she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.
—Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Match Girl

Each snowflake melts on my skin. My breath tags the air.

Depression says the doctor. The word leaves a sticky residue when I
peel it off.

The stars form a long trail of fire that dusts the bridge, ignites
the buildings swimming in the river.

I keep a list of things I want to tell you.

The city is on fire
Frozen tears are falling from the sky
There was a woman on the subway wearing a dress made of garbage bags
I’m making one for myself

You flicker through windows, haunt each passing stranger’s face. When I wrap
my arms around myself, your fingers gutter my ribs.

I dread night’s arctic teeth. I find another box of matches, light them all at once.

The Nightingale

“You must always remain with me,” said the emperor. “You shall sing only when it pleases you; and I will break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.”
— Hans Christian Andersen, The Nightingale

First, the streaked gilly’ver. The tulip blended with midnight.

A touch of madder root for the cheek. Lead & slaked lime for the lashes.

Then finally:  bellows, levers & valves, hidden under tinseled gold. And that voice.

*
*
*

You dye your hair black, I cut mine short.

You buy a white leather jacket. I wear green vinyl shoes & stack band-aids
on my heels.

At 4 am, the man at the West Village piano bar sounds like Barry Manilow.

*
*

First, we were kids in the suburbs. In Peter Pan, you sang falsetto while I danced en pointe.

Tinkerbell effervesced around the stage. Fairy dust drifted out into the audience.

You said If you need me, just blink twice.

*
*

All these years I thought you were the real bird; I thought I was the real bird.

*

At the Greek diner, we get pancakes. You tell me about your childhood dream girl, the one named Buttercup, whose hair has never been cut.