Lower Manhattan

Wooden tables and a dark staircase. The jazz man

lets out a caterwaul coming off the E-train,

bone-metal jaw clenching hard tactics

in the bowery of dishonor.

Tonight,

Every language tied up in your blood

is sticky wet thread slipping through my fingertips,

Thick candle-lit smoke,

A thousand pictures of the sky next to my heart.

All these lonely songbirds in our throats

Ready to splinter.

Someone’s sister keeps running away,

Arms reaching out for the softer parts

A breast, a thigh

Mangoes and fruits

Luxury. You said

seven tables and coughed a lungfish onto your plate.

I was playing it fast and loose,

But that ends on the sidewalk outside.

The milk-tailored men cleaned us out,

Roughed us up, made us

Taste concrete through our hair.

We were probably made of rooftops and bowling pins

Like how the atmosphere changes

When you hesitate,

Sink down on your knees

And let twelve-and-a-half dogs

Fall like rainwater around you.