i retreated to the harlem river. it smells like metal, tastes sour on the tongue, feels silky on the skin. leaves a film like memories you can't wash off with lava soap. emulsification is null and void. i am harlem river dripping, iridescent trail that sticks uphill. i am in the lots and spaces between project buildings, i am putrid funk of dredging, i am most familiar to myself in this dingy wash. i am coming back home.
the air is still stagnant. it is beginning to smell. i can smell it over my dirty river opalescence. something needs to move. stir. change.
i cannot command it to. not yet. my thumbs tucked between pointer and middle fingers, hoping/dreaming. in despair i know that there is no turning time back. only these moments when all is still. and i want to rearrange, but rearrange what? rearrange who? it will not undo death or addictions or broken hearts or learned outlooks, or tangible sorrow.
Slow incline in beaming sun- my skin reddens in places: the tip of my nose, the rounded peaks of my cheekbones, the backs of my calves. i move slowly, i begin to recharge. i am home. light beams from my pores. i glisten. i shine despite my conviction. there is something magnetic here. it draws me in ways i cannot control. pulls me back to knees pressed into chest, pulls me back to toes in mouth completing circuit, pulls me back to before i became conscious of myself. myself in relation to this. myself as different. the gift/curse dichotomy. the static here makes my ears ache. my fingernails brittle. despite my conviction it also makes me glow, fuels me. holy ground at times. it's where i plug in. where i can sense the subtlest movement; in touch with the earth shift. fire ignites in my belly. we want everything warm warm warm. in the heat of summer and nothing moving i hope to make it warm again. and if i didn't know any better, i'd think everything is suspended in the humidity's thickness.
painful source of origin with your bloody noses, resold food stamps, canned dinners, and the sting of under-harnessed energy. i lay at the foot of the building. wondering whether the 5th floor walk up will still creak in the same places. my face is pressed into the cement steps. i stare at the abandoned milk crates, card table and dominos. the lights flicker from green to yellow to red. i feel the sparks fly off my fingertips. release in spasms in my thighs. the reflex action of letting go. the kind of movement that even i cannot command. i have never felt more natural. it's as if i'd bloomed from concrete. i am wildflower in street cracks. i am home.
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