My mother, my father, my husband,
currently poised … a coincidence?
on three separate continents.
House-mates, Alef and Simone
bring me sake’, borrow my hammer.
The work goes reasonably well.
Because the seasons do not belong
to us we think we can put them on, like
garments, and cast them off at will.
Above three thousand degrees
even rock takes on a viscous state.
There's no better way to describe it.
There is no way to explain it away. Peace
for me is order, balance and symmetry.
Only with things laid straight can I breathe.
In my particular space, after hours of solitude,
coming to rest, only with white cup and pungent tea.
Alef doesn’t believe in curtains, so
much can be seen from her windows,
including the trains, elevated.
And never far from the high-pitched whine
and the throaty roar of the city's need
for movement, profit and trade.
The taxis go by, dispatched from one place to
another. Incorporations with names like
Firefly, Motivate, Exultacion
giving body to immigrant dreams.
Give and take. Give and take.
The traffic moves and repeats itself,
never the same stream twice.
New York City, 1987