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sophia-1Poems
a tree did grow in Brooklyn. it was June-- our third-- and the summer weather hadn't turned yet: school was just out, Prospect Park was never full, and the nights were still cool. it was summer in the city before it comes unglued. i had yet to resent the F train terminal or its crowds or its sweat. i hadn't grown bored of 23rd St. on one end of the day and Church Avenue on another, or of the cost of cigarettes or coffee or of the FOODTOWN sign at the top of the subway steps. it was a beautiful month because it was doomed barely to last its 30 days. and there were too so many long hours, sitting barely shaded on your stoop, fending off the landlord's sister and the bugs and waiting for the fall. each time i've gone back since then i've sat on those slow steps; that summer it was no different: three months to crown three years, moving so timelessly by that next month the heat bore down, not the heat only of the sun and the air but the wet, ***** heat of the city, steam forever rising from underground, the oil spills in the gutters beginning to boil. but still it was New York and summer. the roaches and rats hadn't yet eaten all the fireflies. i grew to love routine disquiet: the long car rides to Queens, the Mets games and their pretzel smell and riding back, inevitably discouraged, my homemade tank top leaking Magic marker onto my chest; the trips to the beach at Rockaway, sullen and determined, and their return to Manhattan, tasting like salt (and you, once, like blood) and my hair stiff with brine and feeling the sand in our shoes grit against the ***** sidewalks; those quick walks from Smith&9th Streets, sipping Mexican Cokes and rationing our time by cigarettes: all of July was exhausting, but familiar by then. in August the tornado came, first Brooklyn'd seen in 30 years. we two slept blissfully through it, woke only for the aftermath. we went outside almost giddy, certainly unbelieving, holding hands. and the tree which had stood outside so serenly was uprooted, having missed the bedroom window by only a few feet. [it was June-- cool. barely shaded so timelessly beginning to boil all the fireflies.]
0
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 11:18 AM UTC
a tree did grow
a tree did grow in Brooklyn. it was June-- our third-- and the summer weather hadn't turned yet: school was just out, Prospect Park was never full, and the nights were still cool. it was summer in the city before it comes unglued. i had yet to resent the F train terminal or its crowds or its sweat. i hadn't grown bored of 23rd St. on one end of the day and Church Avenue on another, or of the cost of cigarettes or coffee or of the FOODTOWN sign at the top of the subway steps. it was a beautiful month because it was doomed barely to last its 30 days. and there were too so many long hours, sitting barely shaded on your stoop, fending off the landlord's sister and the bugs and waiting for the fall. each time i've gone back since then i've sat on those slow steps; that summer it was no different: three months to crown three years, moving so timelessly by that next month the heat bore down, not the heat only of the sun and the air but the wet, ***** heat of the city, steam forever rising from underground, the oil spills in the gutters beginning to boil. but still it was New York and summer. the roaches and rats hadn't yet eaten all the fireflies. i grew to love routine disquiet: the long car rides to Queens, the Mets games and their pretzel smell and riding back, inevitably discouraged, my homemade tank top leaking Magic marker onto my chest; the trips to the beach at Rockaway, sullen and determined, and their return to Manhattan, tasting like salt (and you, once, like blood) and my hair stiff with brine and feeling the sand in our shoes grit against the ***** sidewalks; those quick walks from Smith&9th Streets, sipping Mexican Cokes and rationing our time by cigarettes: all of July was exhausting, but familiar by then. in August the tornado came, first Brooklyn'd seen in 30 years. we two slept blissfully through it, woke only for the aftermath. we went outside almost giddy, certainly unbelieving, holding hands. and the tree which had stood outside so serenly was uprooted, having missed the bedroom window by only a few feet. [it was June-- cool. barely shaded so timelessly beginning to boil all the fireflies.]
copyright SophiaBurris
Written by
sophia-1
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 11:18 AM UTC
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