There was a last time I
sat in the backseat of my
grandmother’s car, Indiana
whipping by to the tune of
Patsy Cline as performed by,
a final time she jogged up
to scoop me into the
long hug hello, I
missed you, you always
give the best hugs.
I take an expat’s path
through the neighborhoods of
Queens, lock eyes with a cat
from the window of a Woodhaven
apartment, green eyes unblinking,
proud face wizened and
watchful, I murmur
you’ll never know it, but
we shared a city once,
he looks away, bored.
I want you to know
that deli was a noodle shop, I
really need you to believe
my grandma used to
pour her own ceramics,
cursed in capital
letters scooping the
leaves and muck from
the gutters, I’m desperate
for you to tell me
that you know I belonged
here, once, and time
didn’t rinse the stories
away, you know?
Stories spill out from
my lips, I think, so my
eyes won’t flood, in this
way, I found the power
to resurrect, everything
used to be something
else, and it was
really something.
michael king 