For You, From Here

I cannot do this now.
The cat meows in tall grass,
Tiny body hungry.

Let me sleep on it.
Bass moves the brick walls downtown.
Meanwhile the pier is full of empty wine glasses,
Greasy parchment paper in French fry cones made of metal.
No boat in the basin looks familiar.

We used to race the length of Manhattan, or take the real train out to Long Island.
Metal body salty snake in sand drift.

I used to live in Queens and sleep in midtown.
I used to live in midtown and sleep in Queens.
I used to leave from laguardia.

The river runs from here to you.
It moves in both directions.
I am, but the garden.

I was born in St. Vincent’s on the North Shore.
My great aunt was a painter, but the family.
I was raised up the Hudson in a cabin
Full of apples.

Fall out of love and I’m blushing.
None of it fits in the suitcase.
I am not unmaking.

The poem turns into the light.
Tomorrow is now where today was.
Read me into the grass, on the right side.

Great grandma was named Miss Brooklyn.
I am telling the same story backwards.
We used to sell chocolates for money,
We’d eat half then keep all the money.

Grandpa’s cat was named Shadow
After Bubblegum was put down.
There were hard candies hidden in the dashboard.

I will tell you, but rest in the morning.
Do not read me into under the
Door frame.
When the bricks in these walls,
go to sleep.


About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in fall, Food, new york, Poetry, Writing Tips and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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