2 December 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 4
Ashes in Grand Central Terminal
Weather descends the stone steps—
sea of hats, hoods, shoulders
headed to the trains. Somehow I remain
sandy, coral continues
to cut, the ankle
closing month after month.
*
Oyster Bar underground. A stranger
needs an ashtray—
Drunk. Warm-looking skin.
His eyes cross
two detached lines of vision
stretching around me—
*
The sand in Hana,
coral, abalone, volcanic rock
so fine it's easy to —
What exactly do I miss?
Too much hurt bleeds devotion useless.
Anger like macadamia on my lover's tongue.
*
Drinking and crying.
Crying and drinking.
To me now, they are one and the same.
Hawaiian-sea green. Or canned-pea green.
Narrow scent differential—
booze or over-boiled spinach?
Eventually, you lose tolerance
for the smell, the noise. The 6-Train screeching to a halt in New York.
Concentrate,
when did the tunnels
become tired vegetables?
What's real is not knowing for sure.
About the author:
Jennifer Chapis holds an MFA in creative writing from New York University, where she is currently full-time faculty in the Expository Writing Program. Her poems have recently appeared in Barrow Street, Hayden's Ferry Review, McSweeney's (online), Minnesota Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Spoon River Poetry Review, and others. Her broadside was printed with The Center for Book Arts. Chapis is an Editor with Nightboat Books.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Jennifer Chapis at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 4, No. 4, where "Ashes in Grand Central Terminal" ran on December 2, 2004. List other work with these same labels: poetry.
