Smoke Break
by Ruby Goodman
I burst onto the street catching the last light deflating
from the dark December sky. It’s been months now
of getting air from dinner parties.
I know how to be among these strangers
swimming around the city, heels of boots percussing on the concrete,
the things they say in their heads,
propelling their bodies away from
obligations or fantasies
with endless forward motion.
From the open window there hangs bits of conversation
I am by nature excluded from.
There under my eyelids is the yawning yellow lamplight I have longed for each time I’ve passed
a house with people inside. I was just there, but I’ve forgotten.
The things of life,
the tumult, flirtation tearing the wallpaper down,
the new kitchen appliances, irksome mannerisms, sudden self-awareness,
the drying of wine glasses,
a brush of the hand, thinking of someone,
the burnt dessert, repeating questions, the quarters of life neatly occupied with that baby
and everything, with the changing circumstances of my mother’s life,
inching closer to the next thing,
finding myself older now.
Someone turns on quiet music, the air swells with feeling, no matter
which tune, it is melancholy in winter.
I reach for something to smoke; I know I never had it.
Winter wanders like death itself through these sidewalks, makes me feel so alive, being outside
it’s cold.
I lean against the railing, shedding black metal, I grind my rings against it.
I lick my fingers and
drown my eyebrows down, down against my skin.
I’m aware
of how beautiful I look tonight
outside, under the flooding white
of the lamppost. Under the moonlight, I’ve drunk enough so they see how I am
ripped open zipped open,
a transparent sweater, though
I look at Brooklyn
like it is a thousand mirrors.