the rivers of it, abridged

New York City skyline at night


Spring 2013



Andrea M. Lockett


We are on the train late,
riding from Crown Heights
to Greenpoint,
our bodies bumping
back and forth
with the rhythm
of the G-train.
Our clothes are perfumed
with the smoke from a party
of colleagues, not friends.

Weed never affected me,
scarred lungs, blistered body.
But you begin to weep.
I don't love you,
you say, turning to me.
And I do
the womanly thing:
shield your shame
from staring strangers,
tell you it's OK,
—OK that you don't love me—
hold you close against this breast
that you don't love.
I find a tissue in my pocket,
wipe your face,
watch out for our stop.
Take you home and fix us
a drink.



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