07 February 2011

Memoir

Memoir 2/7

A hand out across the water
finger tips barely touching

This is my voice in the middle of the night

I am blind and sitting on a sidewalk in Harlem
crying and hitting the pavement with fists

At least it’s not snowing – right?

There is no fracture and my mother
is not driving across the bridge

My voice is cracked and swollen a balloon

These are my fingers reaching
your hand is just out of reach

Over the other side of Manhattan out in Brooklyn