janelle, don’t look down. revere
the sun. watch it make
a shallow arc, skimming
like a stone across the sky.
remember your mother
is not luminescent.
your lover is past
halcyon. watch water
from the faucet shiver
on the metal rim and whoosh
its merry way into the drain hole.
remember that quiver,
remember your first inhale
of another long winter,
pointed like a pencil tip
as the wind passes
through you, an open window.
hold your breath three avenues
to the subway. when someone sounds
like your mother, the fracture
you hid from, close your mouth
and remember your country
let you down first. janelle, don’t lose
track. the sky is the only universal
ceiling. remember we stand
under it, peeling. slow roasting.
skewered. we forget countries
are constructs, obscene
as virginity. i don’t need to remind you
what americans forget: you are standing
on holy ground. listen
to the subway grates blowing
raspberries at babies. listen to the gaggle
of cars craning their necks.
remember your time here
expires. don’t look
back now. remember,
you still can’t claim america.