I love being gone from a place
long enough to remember it in pieces.
The words of some old song
piecing themselves together
in the back of my throat,
    
(I'll
         be
             seeing
                         you.)

                 Like rust on the underbelly of my car.
Or warm-walled cafés
where I tasted the lips of lovers.
                 The way winter tears
                 my Mother's skin apart,
and how potholes
remind me of
                 her hands.

Last January I embraced a delirious woman
whose daughter had jumped from a 10 story building.
The whole time she talked about the aching
of children's bones
and how she wished someone would fill in
the cracks on the sidewalks.

I used to say this city gave me growing pains.
I wonder if New York will make me feel smaller.