“...There must be Moments when we see right through Although we say we can’t.” Archibald MacLeish
There must be — or how could I take my own aimlessness. I love everything: the man in the bar who says he builds boats, plastic bags that catch in the branches, rattling. Sometimes the city shuts me out, or else I’m split, or the things that I am are stacked, I sing them out. I should remind myself I’m lying about what I love. Or I should say how the things that I love could shatter a thimble, but not fill it. This is my second-favorite riddle. Lately — since August — nothing will signify: not the East River, not my dream of the city, my bridge. Now the end of every sentence seems unlikely. I even love your likeness. I don’t know how the stanzas came off-‐center. Every so often I widen my wingspan. I’m trying to be modern. I love mangoes. This is my immaculate magic. I took all these months to write it.
NATALIA HOLTZMAN is an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. She earned a BA in Philosophy from Kalamazoo College in 2010. Her poems have previously appeared in Grist: The Journal for Writers.