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