The Wake

New York

steams wheels,
inhales burnt out joints,
harvests moonlit-limbs,

laces imagination with brandy,
Bukowski as
legs drip out of bathtubs.

It was here I first knew
broken saxophones,
love-scented cabs,

cowboy’s crushed trigger finger,
naked subway graffiti of I hate my life and yours,
slumped bottles, the wild prairie.

I could steal Central Park,
big-boned blade of voluptuous earth,
tax-deductible on Wall Street.

New York all-nighters hit morning and run,
ride high with blank stomachs blank guns,
pockets of plugged nickels.

Fear New York, a casket without a headstone.
It slays traffic with scarred palms,
inside the jungle gym where God’s eye is slit.

As for me, I’ll move back to the farm.
I’d rather be stolen by a tractor,
unloaded in the dark.

New York, my eyes are swooping Mafiosa basement bulbs.
I’d strap a heart behind them
if you said I love you.

October 23rd, San Francisco

This our last weekend,
I turn.
My soul out to pasture,
rakes dried manure
& mends wild fencing.

(The ocean,
glad & cold,
poured daily into our bed.)

We waded water
together. I dipped
into handouts from last night’s

beach party, slimed & salted—
Styrofoam, a broken beer bottle.

I pressed away
your hand, hot
from my back. Blur
your familiar fingers

over dead nerves. We
solemned our way
to shore (beaten & rageful)
spewing in deliberation.

All the oceans died
after I swallowed salt.

::About the Poet::

Nell Kromhout, a candidate for a BA in English, enjoys most of her time in a barn surrounded by hay, dirt and horses. Her other engaging activities include rock skipping, knitting, reading and writing. She frequently volunteers in schools doing poetry workshops and hopes to orbit the earth in a space shuttle someday, to count moon craters.