After 'Ars Poetica #100: I Believe' by Elizabeth Alexander
by Orly Berkowitz-Henkin
I eat three Klondike bars from Frank’s Deli and Goods
crusted chocolate on my cheeks as my mother tells me about her enlarged thyroid.
The poem happens here, between the gaps in my sticky teeth and the coils of my mother’s hair This linoleum tabletop, shoving three feet between our elbows, this is what matters
A brown labrador, small pebble lodged in his back left paw, hobbles across Prospect Park and
finds me, bare-footed and flat-chested
Here on my sweaty thighs and wicker blanket and the green grapes scattered in the grass
is where the poem is
Ahmed sells breakfast sandwiches for half price on Mondays
in a metal cart he stands for nine hours flipping bacon, hot grease scarring his forearms
Rolling down his griddle is a poem
slipping between yolks and toasted hero rolls and ketchup stains
Anna’s father beats her every night, between his second and third scotch
new bruises spotted each day between the slits in my locker
And my poem is in the globs of Neosporin she squeezes from my fingertips
and the soft trumpet jazz on hold for Child Protective Services
and the chocolate milkshakes salted by our tears