by Sofia Bagdade
Yesterday I fell off my bike. The truth is,
under lamplight, the bruises rich as berries
& blue too from all the pinching,
when my knees hit the pavement it was prayer
or the white pews peeled with paint and back
sweat, our thighs almost touching on velvet seats.
White-hot moment of suspense, my hip
bent to cement, old man approaching like tepid
water from the tap. Then garble of sewage drain,
how beer caps line the streets like trees
snapping under the weight of a week straight of
rain, wet bark curled in raw rings.
Once we had chalk in every touch,
clumps of pollen under sneakers
and kneecaps, and from the cracks,
low antenna ants marching neon lines
in battalion, mothers’ backs and lint faded
denim, lost bake sales and names in curled swell.
Bare lights of midnight pickups and backpacks
loud with wine chime bottles, moonlight and early
perspiration, arms extended with silver keys, swords
to flat rooftops. The whole city unfurled in smoke
stacks and text tones, tracing each tier of spine, our
shoulders piled against Sixteenth Street brick:
outlined bodies interlaced on the wet gravel,
or that padlocked pair from Pompeii, our limbs
just playthings for the spokes to latch onto
Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in One Art, The Shore, and Roi Fainéant Press, among other publications. More of her work can be found at sofiabagdade.weebly.com. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.
January House Literary Journal 
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