VOCATION
She slips like a cat through traffic, a girl alone downtown for the first time, subwayfare in her purse,
fear of losing it clamping her chest, wind whipping tears from her eyes,
fried grease and gasoline in her nose, shoes and jewelry in shopwindows, a spike of freedom stitching her scalp--
though she dreads the allergy shots at the clinic she feels herself getting brave. Now it begins to snow on Central Park South
and a flight of pigeons whirs up from a small pile of junk in the gutter grey, violet, green, a predatory shimmer.
The marquee of the Paris Theater looks at the ecstatic child through downcast lashes, condescendingly.
I see her over a distance of fifty years. How small she is in her thin coat. I offer a necklace of tears, orgasms, words.
copyright2001 Alicia Ostriker
|