collections from new york after a long night

boyish. boy-ish. thing come alive. the warmth

flaring in the pit of your stomach, it could be

desire, if you wanted. you are a woman, after all,

after all, you are a dove, you are a god, the music,

the tongue in cheek and on cheek, the love

hidden in the wall on a wednesday. so afraid

of becoming something that it already is. afraid

of tenderness: afraid of its flesh peeled back

like an orange, afraid of the bruises underneath

the silk dress. after all, you are the city at night

full of lovers pouring forth from their doorways,

you are the windows flung open as if the moon

was always the only answer. boy not-bird, regrettably.

girl not record-player not spinning too fast to breathe.

and fear, fear, fear, trembling in corners like a jazz band.

tapping their fingers. love incarnate working an office job.

all of us doing something to get by. we’re afraid of something

and we’ve shoved it away: our kindess and hope taking up space

in the air vents. the storm brewing in your hands, it could be

tenderness, low and sweet. this is a promise i am making to you.

this is advice about that monsoon crawling up your wrists.

it could be tenderness, a song, gentle rainfall, yes woman.