East/West
By Ali Shapiro
The long window frames a roofscape
like a snapshot of a cardiogram, the arrhythmic
neighbors’ houses, the flatline
of a low barn, the pulse fluttering
at the church’s steeple. In the floor, an inlaid
navigational star, as if anyone could lose
their way here. The house
is empty, we have space but no time, so we make love
on each chair around the dining room table,
knock a few legs loose, topple
the candelabra. All this before sunrise, then it’s time
to get back in the car. I’ve always known I could be happy
nowhere, but what about
somewhere specific––Brooklyn, the windows cluttered
with telephone poles, streetlights, bricks?
I knew a woman who burned down, a house
that breathed, a place where the ground
slipped into the sea and they had to keep moving
the lighthouse backwards. No one lives here, someone whispers
through the door. I’m not sure what
I can take with me. I want to stay with you
somewhere, but perhaps
there’s no place like that.
——
Ali Shapiro is a freelance writer currently residing in Seattle, WA, where she landed after a year of travel on a post-graduate fellowship awarded to her to study the role of women in tattoo cultures around the world. Her work has appeared in the The Southeast Review, as well as various student publications and blogs.
This entry was posted on Friday, July 3rd, 2009 at 2:05 am and is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
