Oh no. I will never.
Ever.
Fall in love again.
My heart's weighted.
Hemp-tied in a thief knot
sinking in the East
River
because once I saw a woman crawl
into that water
one liquid August night,
with her hair on fire.
I remember her braids:
one at a time, popping,
sizzling, filling her tracks
as she scuttled backwards
down the bank.
Maybe drunk, who knows?
Kerplunk! she clove the River
into an ovation.
And I watched as her arms
like blades scythed
the dirty River
yet, her face stayed
shuttered, above water.
Her eyes blinked, apertures
as the dissenting fire,
oblivious to its circumstance,
played on.
A homeless dog divined the water
to kiss her skin,
the head now a
blackness bubbling away.
The dog danced on her unshielded
crown
until she pushed him under.
Get off, she brayed.
It was then I laughed:
She's going to live, I thought.
She swung her embered eyes on me
and I went blind.
By the time it took me to see
again
I was hard,
waist-high in water,
reaching for her smoldering
arms.
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