Pull the splinters from my eardrums
so I can hear what it sounds like when
the earth stumbles on a
Thursday afternoon
when it cracks a stranger’s
shoulder open on the way down and gasps
Wash the dirt from Friday’s eyes
and show me skinned palms and bloody knees
I’ll say sorry twice and mean it and find
band-aids along gap-toothed avenues
while you lick the smoke from my fingers and smile
Tuesday needs clean hands to disinfect and breathe
so blow the ash off my collarbones and fill them
with next door’s burning incense and indoor
voices until there are no bricks on my ankles
and we can climb
a black tower of bedroom doors and birthday presents
Up, up Thursday
it’s cold for April.
Quiet the wind and let me feel the fallen city blush
Naomi Pallas is a former reporter for the Martha’s Vineyard Times. This poem was written after the explosion in New York City’s East Village, in which Naomi had an apartment. Fortunately, all is well.
