Bodega | The First Thing Written in Two Years

I am walking down the diamond district on 47th street

my grandmother has passed on

I am looking to get her engagement rings cleaned

Yesterday you found the uber receipt

and are now back where the attack happened

sageing the hotel

of a dark we promised not to speak

There is a pause in every great argument

(A breath that pulls a knot so tight the rope can break)

where both realize the next thing said is either the beginning of the end

or the carry on that raises you both from bed each day

a little softer than the last

This is a desperate beautiful that we will do with our lives

I am mostly in my gut

churning a mortgage and him and you and us

and how will I propose outside?

the sun doesn’t shine in Brooklyn during February

If you want to rot an oak tree; it’s years of strength and lines and reach

you drill small holes to help let the water and insects in

you kill in littleness

you kill in steady trickle

In the photos she takes I look so skinny and happy

I look like I would break if the rain came inside

The First Thing Written in Two Years