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| Image | Jana Al Mubaslat |
Suffolk Street, December 1989
Toward the old barely
furnished room: I’d rather hide my horses there
beside the radiator frozen in the window glass
inside uncertain prospect of that Christmas.
How I held you. What awakened me. You
as catalyst, incipient.
Your death
no different from the other deaths that year.
I was young then, knew the streets,
each one a strand of river in me and direction.
Manhattan folded over as a wave inside my skins.
Now my knees are giving out: not kneeling
but receiving.
My insolence in knowing what’s not known,
what’s music sense: the words
are unimportant.
The skin itself will not remember anything.
© Nancy Bevilaqua
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| Nancy Bevilaqua |
Nancy Bevilaqua is a poet who has also worked as a caseworker for people with AIDS and as a travel writer. Her poems have been published in West Branch, Whiskey Island, Juked, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Prelude, and other publications. She now lives in Hoboken, NJ, where she is finally realizing her 50-year-old dream of learning to play drums.
Well done write
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