Labor Day

Manhattan slows down. September
Sunday,
last ice cream truck on the streets of
SoHo, warm days still, a faint breeze maybe,
gentle sun. Quiet.

I cross Broadway, going west. The cars halt with
a subdued screech. Mind roams still. Last night there
was an explosion; a small fire and shrapnel.

The woman in the street with her coffee in one hand,
cigarette in the other, stops in the middle of a pull.

12:49pm.

I cross Broadway, going west. Cars halt with
a screech. Roams.

The motionlessness spreads like a filter until it hits

The halal guy on the corner
wraps up a purchase with
urgency, thank you, see you, takes
off his shoes, careful it's a ritual
steps
away from the cart on the sidewalk where he
sells some dangerous chicken over rice and onto
a piece of tin foil. Late - but only a bit late.
Away from the stream of human traffic.
He reverently bows, whispers. I know
he is facing
the Ka'aba.
A prayer.

Manhattan slows down. 12:49pm, in the middle of a pull.
I stop.

The middle of a rush, a pull. I pause.

For the first time in months, I pause.

My heart slows down.

Manhattan slows

down.


Last night there was shrapnel, fires. Today
all there is
is the peace that we have learned
to cultivate.

sentiment's the same but the pair of feet change

Prism

I know the exact look on her face, the first night she used my toothbrush. The next day, I brushed my teeth like thirtysome times, 'cause I didn't want to let her go. You have to understand when it hurt to love her, it hurt the way the light hurts your eyes in the middle of the night, but I had to see, even through the ruin, if what we were burying were seeds. There were so many plants in our house, you could rake the leaves even through that winter when I was trying to make angels in the snow of her cold shoulder. She was still leaving love notes in my suitcase; I'd always find them.


The day before I left, I remembered a story her mother told me. She said, Andrea, when Heather was a little girl, she couldn't fall asleep without tying a string to her finger all night long, she'd give that string the tiniest tug to make sure I was still there. And I'd tug back. That was love. That was love. As easy as that. Sometimes. Sometimes.