by Madlynn Haber
Avenues of Escape
I walk.
Street after street, one block, then another,
a city, any city, one city after the other,
Dupont Circle to Columbia Road,
the Chinese restaurant on Avenue J.
The overground train shakes
everything; the winds blow;
streetlights wave.
In movies things fall down.
In real life? Never.
The Avalon Theater on
Kings Highway; the Claridge on Avenue P.
The Coney Island Avenue bus expels
soot, a smell of gasoline burning,
And people. Summer, it travels
to the beach, warm, sticky, lotion
melting in the sun.
I walk.
The city’s an escape
from small town stories
that can’t be changed.
I walk
from Washington, DC to Philly.
finding myself along the way,
changed but recognizable.
In boots and back pack,
I pass up on the cars that stop,
the driver mistaking me
for the hitchhiker I am not.
I act like I know I have
somewhere to go.
I do.
Sundays, the streets empty out.
The insurance companies close.
I walk alone without the crowds.
In every city I visit the zoo.
Animals in cages show us how
To slow the pace, walk in circles.
I look but don’t stop moving.
In the city I escape
from narratives
that need changing.
I hop on an underground train.
Hop off, walk up the steps to the street where
Someone waits for me
with an umbrella.
***
Traces
He took a picture of my hand
with a jade ring on my middle finger.
He was making a recording
for his answering machine while
I was sitting by his side on the couch.
Recording his greeting so seriously,
he suddenly just said “and fuck you too.”
I burst out laughing. He kept recording.
He had a picture of my hand
and a recording of my laugh
to remember me by when I left.
It is the smallest snatches of a person
we savor after they’ve gone.
A grandmother’s crooked finger.
The sound of feet rubbing together
in delight while lying side by side.
Small brown flecks in otherwise green eyes.
The sound of coins jingling in a pocket.
How he inhaled cigarette smoke.
The taste of Chiclets on a tongue. Traces.
The gifts we aren’t aware we have given.
Really interesting and evocative writing, Maddie. Love the details that bring the scenes alive (streets, cities named in first poem, jade ring, exhale of cigarette smoke in second one for example).