Wednesday, December 14, 2011

City Windows

I look into and up and out millions of windows

in Brooklyn. I imagine the myriad of stories that fill

the space between front and back doors.

Lights--through the well to do

Carroll Gardens’ bay windows

and the section-8 bars in Bed-Stuy--

seep into the world the same way,

if there are cracks in the sidewalks.

Reflections morph single gestures of love,

panes muffle all the words that spur hour-long fights.

I take a late night taxi over the bridge.

In between boroughs there are endless windows.

I ask the cabbie,
“How many would you guess?”

Lackadaisically, he tells me,

“Just count the flickering blue squares.”

I number them like stars.

My lover and I lollygag in bed until the early

morning dew spots dry on the dirty glass.

Our dog moves back and forth over us, under and above

the sheets that smell like stale cigarettes.

The maddening loose manhole, car horns, bus hydraulics,

the bickering and babbling teenagers

become a cacophony outside our widow.

With the curtains open, the world can see

our bare skin and our messy hair.

Every year I move deeper into the ghetto.

Is it serendipity or gentrification

that helps safety follow me?

Maybe passersby see

me through my window. Do they

see me struggling or smiling?

Or maybe I’ve become obsessed

with other people’s windows

and all I want to do is sit in their living rooms

for a change.

Words from by Rebecca DeWitt-Fix's Facebook Status (and the comments)

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Too Cold

Rarely does a New Yorker
admit their longing
for a feeling
of quiet openness--
a feeling that rises inside
once we won't be swallowed
up by this brownstone
or that skyscraper.

But the first thing every New Yorker
does when outside the graph paper
grid is look up.

We look up
and regain openness.

Clusters of clouds follow us in the city
but we want to soak up the stars--
wet our skin with their glow
and carry their warmth
back to our tiny apartments.
We put them in our beds,
our bathtubs,
and in our shoes
so we can take them out
when we feel like we're suffocating.

New Yorkers never forget
how stars look
but we fool ourselves:
Just after dusk,
millions of windows
reflect their lights
onto the Hudson.

But it's too cold.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Multisensorial Time

I touched time

57 and counting

My reflection stayed the same.

10:19 a.m

I do not feel the sun move,

only shadows.

I touched time

57 and counting

My reflection stayed the same.

10:19 a.m

I do not feel the sun move,

only shadows.


Time scrambles, falls, and scatters

across my pillow, down to my toes.




The baby pigeons fall from the ledge

16 1/2 times every 60 seconds.


Affected by winter smells

of rot, sounds like pigeons

eating chicken bones.

10:19 p.m