Life as the City
The day wraps around itself – graying petals raise the walls of a secret garden
around the sun, baring their water-plump underbellies to the world.
The sky tips back in tremors of laughter, water draining
from its eaves, spreading the city over a lightless sky and dousing it in shades of
A puddle of silver satin sheets squirms beneath me. Knees rolled
into my chest, arms draped around them, my eyes averted past the tear-
stained windows. A tube of beer-battered light tunnels from the streetlamp,
the edges siphoned away, leaving a haze where warmth meets damp night.
The sheets follow my feet to the floor — they don’t make it
past the bedroom. A bellow of thunder greets my hand at the front door.
Night and rain replace my skin in folds. I am the city.
I taste the perspiration fill my lungs, feel thousands of lights embed themselves
in my body, hear rippling voices tuck the kids away from the storm.
The cool rain drips through thick fingers
of tar into my veins, and my heart beats erratically, in sync with a million others.
Tangerine wicker claws at the back of my legs, and I’m drawn back
away from the world. The wicker chair is new, not broken in yet – like this
Minneapolis life. It needs to be tested, sculpted, softened. A private smile
creeps out into the city; and I let the people do the breathing for me.