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
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