She was sad today for no reason. Perhaps it was the trip to SoHo and the nostalgia that came with it. Memories of days she had spent there flew past her, like someone fanning the pages of a book.
Was it a coincidence than that she received this poem from Kimba remembering their life together?
Brooklyn, Our Love a Memory 6/1/09
Brooklyn, it’s the curried goat, man, it’s the pall of BQE exhaust diffused in summer steam, the playful flat of a tar rooftop, the bubbles of gas from the fried Polish breakfast we shared, the walk, walk, walk upon the earth because I didn't get the bicycle off the fire escape that morning, the seductive smell of paint and plaster dust in cool spots of artist spaces, making sex talk, dreaming of green point green
Brooklyn, it’s the baseball bat by the door of your flat, it’s the rat ‘scapade along the edges of the L train stations of the cross, it’s the coin toss dropping in the horn player’s hat, it’s the great stew of black, Italian, Pole and Jew, it’s me and you together smiling, dragging our bags along the Bedford way, with a bead of sweat painting the film of dirt on your summer naked arms so pale, bitten twice
Brooklyn, it’s my bankruptcy, my salvation, my vision of beauty in a nightmare, it’s our unfair care for one another, domestic partners unknown to your mother, it’s the rainbow sticker on my leather case, it’s fireworks exploding in the East River on the Fourth, the taste of black powder blowing in the kitchen window, the landlord joking he would throw a Jew off the roof, proof we said nothing, roman candle
Brooklyn, it’s the queen size bed with two red heads, it’s the white tulle drape to bury our love, it’s the heat, the street, handle your big German feet, the pier without peer, it’s love on the edge of a child size porcelain sink, it’s a bottle of whiskey, a clawed leather couch, a stray who came in cause the screen was up while you were away, so he died in the outer wall crawlspace of our home, think pink, oily stink
Brooklyn, it’s a great bloody steak, a saint riding on a dozen shoulders like Italian cake, abandoned banks and pickle tanks, it’s the turkey smoke, a mountain of recycled poke, dust blowing off the top making you choke, your clean making you mean, the polyurethane plant, the invite to play crochet in the empty lots of cinder dust and chewed foam, it’s the beer, the fear, the me so queer, the fuss about us