an ode/elegy to the train station & my body last night

i want to get lost alone 
in this big wild bird's nest city. 

i want to climb 
in between twigs & tinsel,
place my blue glittery earring 
on the curb.

on the subway car we
find yellow plastic seats &
sitting makes liquid sleep
of me, maybe orange juice.

i thank the train station
for having so many people.
there's a little boy 
kicking his legs &
a woman who turns 
the newspaper page at every stop.

so far this is a cliche poem
about the city. 
the reader asks,
"what else does he have to tell me?"

i was grateful for my body,
when was the last time you 
were grateful for your body?
no, not appearance-wise,
i mean the utility of it; 
i was thankful that
my ankles could move 
so far in one night & that 
my calve muscles felt heavy 
like mangoes.

a man was selling fruit 
on Christoper street &
i wanted to stop & buy 
a red delicious apple, but
we had to keep going.

the city makes me think
of fruit & water.
water, because the train
goes deep sea-- full of angler fish lights.
fruit, because all the buildings 
are full of nectar. i plucked
a stop light & bit down:
an overripe plum.

somewhere near penn station
a tall man stared me
in the eyes & asked "what
are you looking at fruit?"
my only thought was that 
if i were a fruit
i would probably be 
a peach & my lover, a nectarine.
i also thought how nice
it was that the crowds might
deter him from hurting me.

is there no safe water for
a queer body? an un-forbidden fruit?
the train is an eel or maybe a snake.

the curb swallows the 
blue glittery earrings &  
i'm thankful for the holes
in my earrings that
minnows can pass through.

if i died in the city
last night, i hoped that 
i might come back as 
a cluster of grapes in
that man's fruit cart 
or maybe as the farthest 
sliding door 
of the train back to long island.

i said 
thank you body for
being so tired, thank god
thank god thank god
& out the train window i could
only see rooms full of 
dead people & bowls 
of fruit, never the two
at the same time. yes,
& they were always under water. 

no cars pass me
on my walk home & the train
station behind me becomes
a goldfish in a pile
of glass on the floor.
no more fruit.
i'm happy that no cars pass me.
i look over my shoulder 
& i see the earrings on
the curb but i don't get
them, i hear the man asking
me "what are you looking
at you fruit?"

i thank my body for not
being attacked. i thank
the train station for being
gentle enough to me.
i thank headlines for
telling me gently that 
two gay men were 
stabbed in the bronyx.
i thank the water for 
turning everyone's words
into nothing more than bubbles
rising & turning 
into fruit above the skyscrapers.

at home in the dim
kitchen light eat an orange.