Staten Island Love Poem

December 21, 2013

The southern most point of New York hums with a haunting tune to the sound of almost silence, that silence which always has a hum, or a tick or both.

 

I feel the wind hug my waist, pushing me along its trail, along the ocean, across from a New Jersey harbor.

 

It is strange the way this feeling only comes to me here, sitting next to the stone house whose legends are larger than my childhood, and much more real.

 

My body is 50 % water and half of an island. I am a vast sea of lovers and liars and this farthest point has raised me in the way that only a hum can.

 

When the deer come, I feel happiest. We watch the sun rise above the ocean as if born from its mother, the sea, filled with strange creatures we like to eat. I think the sun looks up to the ocean and perhaps we are upside down.

 

The grass here is empty except for me, lying on its blanket, breathing dirt as a baby sucks milk to stay alive. This land has a name that does not matter to the reflection of the sea and the small buzz, which comes from nothing. I can be anywhere, sitting here, with deer.

 

I watch these deer with the intensity of a scientist studying ancient ruins or an unknown specimen. They are the past and the future, standing near the hum, watching it. I try to watch the hum but it is not my place and besides, I cannot see it anyway, only hear it, and what luck.

 

This is my New York City. A city that sleeps with the humdrum buzz of a drowsy town with big dreams. It is lovely to wake to the babe of the ocean’s wave and to feel the end of an island beneath tippy toes. It is lovely to imagine.

 

And what a kind gesture to count on, the familiar touch of an arm around my waist, and a push along the beachfront. The wind, my lover and the fish in the sea that I will not eat anymore. The deer have left to find food in the woods. I am 50% water and half an island, anywhere at all.

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