February 2, 2021 - Beneath The Roosevelt Tram

When I opened my eyes I didn’t mind that I had no idea who you were or where you came from. You had a tram ticket in your hand, and your tiny, sad, flickering eyes told me that you’d been staring at me while I, with my eyes closed, consumed the fracturing moment

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I felt self-conscious thinking about how my lips were softly muttering above my chin in concert with the slippery din of the street: the hammering construction, the women begging their dogs to hurry up and shit already, the hoisting of the tram car, and the clanking of the vendor carts as they got jacked up to trailer hitches, and hauled across the bridge

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My mouth moved around all of it, and in my mouth suddenly you were born and the tram was blooming and floating from my open jaw into the evening that was collapsing over the bridge, drawn over the island, sinking into the river. The world slid between itself, my throat as full as my ears with sound

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You stood there, reflected in your own eyes, which were no longer small and sad, but two black moons colliding at the bridge of night and day where dawn is born again. I swallowed and my mouth took my mouth in its mouth and you wept as the tram collided with the bridge and the construction workers tore through the sky

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The island in the river capsized and plummeted into a dizzying black eddy. The dogs took their final salute and the women wore dresses caked in asphalt, leaning into the glistening traffic, their teeth soldered to the pavement

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The world was hoisted from your hand as if a puppet in a gamelan, and you took my face in your palm, held out your ticket and said - it’s time to go home