Dreaming In New York

The girls will not wait for you—

you are too slow in taking your

pictures, the ones they said they

will covet at the beginning of 

the trip.

So, I walk ten feet behind them and

thirty-five in front of you,

your blonde bob lost among the

pea-coated and booted surefooted.

I saw both of my roommates’ breasts.

I always looked away right away for

I am ashamed of mine. Sometimes I

wonder if my body did not want me.

Sometimes I concur it did not.

We ask the stranger by 8th Avenue

how to get to Ground Zero. He pulls out

his iPhone, cradling the blue shopping bag

under his wrist, no trace of any scars—unlike

the other handsome man who sat to my right

on the plane. It was broad and long, under his

right thumb—I memorized it while he was sleeping.

The lover of the stranger in front of me is lucky

I think, I feel. 

His beard makes me list all the places I am ticklish

the list is not long enough. You frown

at my imaginings.

But I am too weary to unravel the plastic bags—

you are not here to pick up your wife’s t-shirt. 

Pink, you told me. Get it in large, you ordered. 

But you are not here to hear me tell you

how much I missed you and how much

I think you would like the breasts of the

girl who slept in my bed last night.

We gossiped about the other girl who laughed too easily

at the assistant coach’s whispered jokes. I wonder

how often she remembers her boyfriend

who is studying in another country,

perhaps studying the geography of another

girl’s hips. 

You are not here to feel my chapped lips

crush, crash into yours—I have not forgotten

how they taste of mangoes, juice dripping.

Where else could I find lips like that 

in this hemisphere? 

I spend hours unpeeling you

With razor sharp teeth that are always complimented 

by first-time ignorant admirers.

My smile is much worse than my bite, you muse. 

You fuck me until I am left dreaming 

of my first time (seeing snow).