Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Car Racing at Rush Hour
On my way home from work,
the last two miles of road,
starting at Chicago and 31st Street -
you’d know the light if you biked here -
I began tailing her.
I took the center of the lane
on my Specialized Allez,
behind a black woman
driving a Ford Escort.
Thirteen blocks, I stuck to her bumper,
running-bra soaked,
mouth parched,
my nose – invaded by fumes.
At the red light, 1st Av. and 31st,
about to turn,
she opened the door and yelled,
“You go, Girl!”
with a grin.
A woman –
not threatening me or hollering
“Get on the sidewalk!”,
“Move your ass over!”.
Thrilled to be tailed for 13 blocks
by a shirtless and sweaty chick on a bike.
This is how I move, how I breathe.
Ep
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Baggage as Art: Sweltering
for the man at the park.
Thirteen years later, I don’t just leave,
but I tie my bike around his thoughts of the afternoon – sticky –
and I swelter him to a fence of sun, to grieve
my innocence as he asked, if, by my leave,
he might touch my
thirteen years later, I don’t just leave.
He pulled from his pants, white as under a farmer’s sleeve,
flesh, writhing – jello on a spoon, jiggly.
I swelter him to a softball fence, to grieve.
The adrenaline pumped around my body late into the eve
as I nightmared summersticky potbellies under the moon, hazy.
Thirteen years later, I don’t just leave.
My teammates, only by my silence I deceive.
Under the three o’clock sun, my shorts were short, by necessity.
Still, I swelter him to a softball fence of sun, to grieve
my innocence injured, my pedals pushing to be freed,
my eyes from his flesh, my ears from his false lullaby.
Thirteen years later, I don’t just leave,
but I swelter him fast to a chainlink fence of sun, to grieve.