sisters and I together, and
I could finally listen.
That day I realized that I
was not simply in the city.
I was of the city; where
everything was wasted,
and it made me feel
empty. Where media took
away our agency and the
urban sprawl of factories
and apartment building
c o n s u m e d o u r l ive s .
Everything and everyone
was back to normal. My
mother was watching her
Spanish soap operas, my
sisters were glued to the TV.
The noise had returned and
the silence was gone. But
when things get too rowdy,
I close my eyes and
remember the silence of
that night, making me
remember my New York
City. The one that fell asleep.
DON’T WRITE IT
Don’t write it.
Don’t write it as poetry.
Don’t use the language of
the stars
To describe the radiance
of my crooked smile,
Or the beauty of your
words
To divert from the
darkness of my eyes.
Write it clear.
Write it simple.
Unadorned and
completely exposed.
So even the densest of
people can understand.
Write about a weeping
willow
Hunched-back, fragile
Wrinkled and worn down.
Write about the onewinged bird
Who wasted its life
Staring at the sky.
Wondering how high it
could fly.
But never willing to try.
Write about broken
promises.
Promises that rip you into
insignificant shreds
Of shattered hearts and
unfulfilled dreams
Of depressed middle-aged
women
Nostalgically looking back
To their five-year-old selves
In tiny tutus
And salmon-pink silhouettes
Twirling
Unraveling the threads of
their hopes
Leaving behind the dreadful
reality of what life truly is.
Empty.
A ghost gasping for
existence.
Write about me.
How I was ravenous to live
But never did.
Don’t write it.
Don’t write my story as
poetry.
Or, don’t write it at all.