< Issue 10 >
the green heart of my Brooklyn
by Mykol Radziszewski
i
i have left my crows, for pigeons
the bound hearts of fat prophets
with their limp legs
and crooked beaks
wings all sunlight and grit
as they shift from rooftop to power line.
when pigeons fly, they clap
remarking my home coming
with “Coo” and “Aah”
as if these shit spattered sidewalks
were an augury of my return.
tears turned tumbled glass,
remembering the sound of me
against brick and stone
as my memory sprang
from heart to street
i made my way, through cherry blossom rain
to meet you in the greenheart of my Brooklyn.
ii
home is the cigarette butt
caught in the hem of my pant,
a time capsule, perhaps, from the last time
you and i sat here.
52 moons of other lovers
and still you i call friend.
never me between your sheets,
just your head against my chest
our backs against the log,
while the East River winds
bless our collars with sand and
ash kisses the places your
crook’d neck begged for lips.
sifting sand for sea glass
i felt the velvet of your forearm tremble
against my calf.
iii
our shadows shape constellations in driftwood,
but my Aquarian heart is
moved instead by the distraction
of Manhattan under the coaxing thumb of sun
and that goose, poised off shore.
his breast bound by plastic…
song, choked by the whistle of his cloak
all shopping bag green,
“if you came nearer, i could set you free” i said
“if you could free yourself, and let me love you,” he replied
“i would make this city the storybook of your remything,
the Queen and Mother of our love.”
the green heart of my Brooklyn
by Mykol Radziszewski
i
i have left my crows, for pigeons
the bound hearts of fat prophets
with their limp legs
and crooked beaks
wings all sunlight and grit
as they shift from rooftop to power line.
when pigeons fly, they clap
remarking my home coming
with “Coo” and “Aah”
as if these shit spattered sidewalks
were an augury of my return.
tears turned tumbled glass,
remembering the sound of me
against brick and stone
as my memory sprang
from heart to street
i made my way, through cherry blossom rain
to meet you in the greenheart of my Brooklyn.
ii
home is the cigarette butt
caught in the hem of my pant,
a time capsule, perhaps, from the last time
you and i sat here.
52 moons of other lovers
and still you i call friend.
never me between your sheets,
just your head against my chest
our backs against the log,
while the East River winds
bless our collars with sand and
ash kisses the places your
crook’d neck begged for lips.
sifting sand for sea glass
i felt the velvet of your forearm tremble
against my calf.
iii
our shadows shape constellations in driftwood,
but my Aquarian heart is
moved instead by the distraction
of Manhattan under the coaxing thumb of sun
and that goose, poised off shore.
his breast bound by plastic…
song, choked by the whistle of his cloak
all shopping bag green,
“if you came nearer, i could set you free” i said
“if you could free yourself, and let me love you,” he replied
“i would make this city the storybook of your remything,
the Queen and Mother of our love.”
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