I never wrote a poem for New York.

I never wrote a poem for New York.

I was busy, memorizing lines in German
I hoped might make someone
become a Mormon.

Men peered over my shoulder in the subway,
asked what I was doing.
“Preparing for my mission” is usually
a conversation killer, but the creepy ones
were undeterred. I was also

undeterred, baby-cheeked and sure
creepiness could be washed away
by a just-right dunk
in just the right font. 

One of the creeps—
I mean, sons of God,
rattling along on the 2 train,
asked me to move in with him.

“I have an apartment in midtown,” he said,
and wanting to always be nice
I let him down with
the easiest truth—
“I don’t like midtown,” I said,
but he wouldn’t let go.
He pressed 
with zeal.  

I slipped out between
the closing doors. Two feet
chasing mine.
They belonged to a woman,
tall and Black in a business suit.
“I wanted to be sure he didn’t follow you,”
she said, like I was someone
worthy of saving.

Then she turned to wait
for the next train, and I 
climbed the stairs to enter the city,
though I never wrote
a poem for New York
and never managed
to give it a bath.  

Photo by Chris Turgeon on Unsplash

The Prompt

Since I didn’t start writing poetry until late 2022 (and only started in earnest in 2023), most of my life is still untapped—at least as far as poems are concerned. It had never occurred to me to write a poem about New York, though my parents lived in Manhattan for a decade and I spent about a year of that time with them. But sitting in a cafe in downtown Louisville yesterday, staring out at the city streets, a flood of memories came back. In particular, I thought of that woman who followed me off the train. I remember feeling touched by her kindness but also surprised that she thought I was in any danger. It was broad daylight. What could possibly happen? Now, with 20+ more years of experience in the world, I view it differently. I would want to follow that young woman off the train, too. The fact that it was a Black woman who went out of her way to prevent even the possibility that harm might come to me stands out to me now, too. It has me asking myself if I am also looking for those moments when someone else might need me to put myself on the line. As a white feminist, what am I doing to support Black womxn? Am I looking around me? When I see a door cracked with what might be danger, am I willing to put my body there?

All this, prompted by city smells, squealing brakes, and a few moments gazing out a window and back at my own life.

If you would like a prompt to play with, I invite you to take a mental stroll (or a physical one, if that’s available to you) through a city of your choosing. Close your eyes (not if you’re actually walking, obviously). What sensory details can you conjure? Smells? Sounds? Maybe a taste to the air? What colors would you need on your palette if you were to paint this city? What would the energy of that painting be, and where would you find yourself in the picture?

Maybe stories or specific memories will come to mind for you, as they did for me. Let yourself relive them—if that’s a place you’re comfortable going. Notice what it’s like to relive them as your current self, with your current perspectives and your richer trove of memories. Do you view those moments of your life differently now than you did then? Do you view that city differently now?

Somewhere in the bustle and blare of your mental stroll through the city, something is likely to emerge that wants to be a poem. Play with it. Give it breath and ink and space. See what happens. And if you’d like to, share it in the comments! I love reading your poems and reflections.

Oh, and I forgot to tell you!

I mentioned a few months back that I pulled together a poetry collection and submitted it in a competition (the James Baker Hall Foundation Book Award). Well, I didn’t win, but I was a finalist, and that’s the reason I was in Louisville. I got to meet all sorts of brilliant and generous people and read a few of my poems for them. It was lovely, and it wouldn’t have happened without the support, cheerleading, accountability, and camaraderie of this little community here. So thank you, dear ones!