Brandy Barents
Crossing into Boston
From the bridge,
Downtown could be a postcard.
Elms expose squirrels’ nests and
geese match the ground.
A pigeon on the railing
sailor-dives
until the wind catches him.
Ducks follow one another,
waddle onto ice
and jump—
land gracelessly on their bellies.
Circles form around them.
With snow this deep,
I shadow the stranger in front of me
perhaps too closely.
He slouches. I slouch.
We give in to the weight of our bodies.
Anniversary
The lights,
raised and lowered all night,
aged me.
This time, I prepared myself
for the deaths:
the first crush fails,
the new lust builds;
a character wails
real tears in front of us!
It was easy to clap and cry
in the dark.
We walk home after the play.
We’ve shared half our lives,
but sometimes it happens.
Seldom. Rarely. Still—
We appear as happy strangers—
beside ourselves with possibility.
A House We Won’t Buy
I was thinking of the kids,
at the party where the children had room.
This is us now and youngish—
we’re always exhausted.
This place is always a shithole.
I’m always at my wit’s end.
But love keeps me pent-up here.
These views from the rooftop windows,
these tiresome fruitflies,
this stove that won’t light, this table
you’re so happy about because it means
we can all sit together.
