Please do this: stop my worry from warbling
across the line, clenched claws and beady eyes.
Yes, I need help breathing amongst the wild,
wound pedestrians, the yawning, brown rain.
We plant sunflower seeds in containers
on the window sill. I think this could grow in
half-shade—just like the rest of New York City,
raised by a sun slanting its eyes between
the playground’s slats. Concrete beams behave as
monkey bars, cigarette butts submit like
pebbles. I, too, concede: I thought subway
grates would drain us when I overwatered
this impervious, almost-earth, but it’s the
end of summer and we’re almost-drowning.
CHRISTINE ALETTI holds an MFA in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared at Crack the Spine, Two Hawks Quarterly, r.k.vr.y, and Thought Catalogue. She lives in Colorado with her little dog.