Refugee
I.
Granada, Spain
A man named Javier, who speaks less
English than my Spanish, kisses me
against a sticky June night.
Such urgency, fervor in his approach,
his tongue a swirling tornado
my mouth spiraling spinning.
I take his face between my hands
(feel his sweat on my fingertips)
pull back so slightly so slightly
our lips still touch whisper
despacio despacio.
II.
Brooklyn, NY
Before the sun wakes
I’ll be on my way
to Spain
when I return
you’ll be gone.
It’s our last night together
you’re suspended in sleep stretched
over me like I’m not here
in this moment
I can’t sleep.
I can’t quit looking at the clock,
can’t stop thinking about the pathology
growing inside of me; the emptiness
you’re about to unfurl.
Can’t sleep can’t quit looking can’t stop thinking
about time and how it deceives--
leads us into thinking it’s infinite
when truly it’s fickle fleeting
waiting for the perfect moment
to leave us.
Your arm, your leg, draped across me
like a warm blanket, like a straight jacket
cradling me close,
(I exist only in this moment)
I close my eyes begin
counting backward.
III.
Granada, Spain
Me encanta el color rojo en los labios de una mujer
Javier says, after we’ve finished
the bottle of Crianza at the outdoor cafe.
Is he referring to my lip-gloss
or the wine?
In the distance I hear a woman
singing. Her Spanish voice
like an angel
weeping. I recognize
a few of her words:
corazón deseo tristeza
I am so familiar with a language I barely understand.
ALYSSA YANKWITT received an MFA from The City College of New York
where she also teaches writing and literature in the English department. She conducted
poetry workshops with middle school students, and ran a Creative Writing group for
senior citizens in Park Slope, Brooklyn for four years.
Refugee
I.
Granada, Spain
A man named Javier, who speaks less
English than my Spanish, kisses me
against a sticky June night.
Such urgency, fervor in his approach,
his tongue a swirling tornado
my mouth spiraling spinning.
I take his face between my hands
(feel his sweat on my fingertips)
pull back so slightly so slightly
our lips still touch whisper
despacio despacio.
II.
Brooklyn, NY
Before the sun wakes
I’ll be on my way
to Spain
when I return
you’ll be gone.
It’s our last night together
you’re suspended in sleep stretched
over me like I’m not here
in this moment
I can’t sleep.
I can’t quit looking at the clock,
can’t stop thinking about the pathology
growing inside of me; the emptiness
you’re about to unfurl.
Can’t sleep can’t quit looking can’t stop thinking
about time and how it deceives--
leads us into thinking it’s infinite
when truly it’s fickle fleeting
waiting for the perfect moment
to leave us.
Your arm, your leg, draped across me
like a warm blanket, like a straight jacket
cradling me close,
(I exist only in this moment)
I close my eyes begin
counting backward.
III.
Granada, Spain
Me encanta el color rojo en los labios de una mujer
Javier says, after we’ve finished
the bottle of Crianza at the outdoor cafe.
Is he referring to my lip-gloss
or the wine?
In the distance I hear a woman
singing. Her Spanish voice
like an angel
weeping. I recognize
a few of her words:
corazón deseo tristeza
I am so familiar with a language I barely understand.
ALYSSA YANKWITT received an MFA from The City College of New York
where she also teaches writing and literature in the English department. She conducted
poetry workshops with middle school students, and ran a Creative Writing group for
senior citizens in Park Slope, Brooklyn for four years.
