Never new, always wood worn,
stairs sinking, a golden glow fades
on the floor of my childhood heart
where I eat perfectly peeled oranges
as my family reminds me
that no matter where I go,
I’ll always have a little desert dust
in these lungs, the heart cannot help
but love where it comes from.
Even here in the city, where we wouldn’t
have a home without the streets, I wonder
would it take
to grow seeds
in the belly of the beast?
The sun sets & I am unsettled in the
presence of memory at dusk,
walking down the cobble-brick
streets of SOHO, the skeleton
of a New York past
& for a moment I believe
that we really could grow
fruit in the intestines
of our bodies,
because they told me it could happen,
& despite the teasing tone & playful posture,
there was wisdom in that warning.
And then it happens--even when I know
that they are long gone
beyond that sweeping horizon,
I will still want to call them.
No one knows why.