from The Many
I never told you: one storm I stood on the roof at 113th St.
& watched the Hudson roil
A taxi ride from Harlem to Prospect. Prospect to
Mission. Ridding the traitor shakes. None amidst the dramas of
a chicken in the oven, a tedium of boxes, the fair on the Vineyard
On a sunny day the kite dances at the sun
like a bull at a matador. Other is not that stomach taxed by the electric
presence, the tension of the mere shared sense of a room, a clutching
reduction of cigarette to secret,
Other is not the Many
—Laura Goode
SHARKPACK Poetry Review 