March 21, 2022

tori, 25, new york, 7 miles away
- tori ashley matos

it’s New York, they said. the largest of the original oceans. or maybe a great lake. salty and
populated. i am crossing the williamsburg bridge. it is finally warm. and don’t we always wish for
something to stir the cherry blossoms in march?

i have never been mud. i have never been ground into clay. i have given up on loving. not on love. i
am switching to soy milk. i am planting tulips. i am swiping left, mostly. i am still eating valentine’s
truffles. you say you can make me a martini, but mostly you say you’re not looking for anything
serious.

if New York is an ocean, where do the fish rest? you’re thinking of my thighs. you’re thinking of
what it might feel like inside me. i am thinking of how to make you change your mind. i wonder how
many ribs make a man. i wonder how many ribs i am. i swipe right. i keep score with my teeth and i
stop texting you back.

can we wait until a snake’s hour? speak of the savagery of us? foam at the mouth and carve initials
into concrete somewhere between here and the indent of two bodies on a warm bed? you’re almost
out of cigarettes. and i am two trees away from a forest. we share a container of blackberries. or, we
could share a container of blackberries. i swipe left.

tenderness is time consuming, love is patient, and the condoms in your wallet expire in a week.  i
only write poetry about the absence of a need met. i’d never say it, but a part of me wants to be
consumed and you are not hungry enough. want to grab a drink? want to grab my ass? want to grab
the wind and make it a home?

i have never been mud. maybe i am silt. and the fish swim past, forcing me to meet them on their
way somewhere. New York, they said.