I am the bass crescendo at St. James Joy, every
inch of chlorophyll at the Botanic Garden. Not
but a bicycle spoke turns without my knowledge.
I bathe you in nectar on the front stoop and you
claim rainfall to be coincidental.
I roll up some cash and put it in your momma’s bra and
you say you’re tired of barely making it.
I gather you in a nation of Berber gold
and pigeons on the sill and
you say can’t wait to get outta here one day.
What can make you see every mercy braided into
crystal wind gust from Canarsie to Greenpoint?
That salvation be the men in the carts, smoking meat
to feed lines of people who don’t trust their beards
in any other context.
Salvation be the jingle of her bangles as she
tends to house, to kids.
Salvation be the abuelas who know exactly how
to make that baby’s gums stop hurting.
Salvation be the cab drivers on their thrones of beads.
Salvation be the steel train to Queens, come back with
provision from any corner of the world.
Salvation be the percussion of a dap,
the church bells kissing the adhan.
Salvation be the oil pools on a hot slice.
Salvation be the plastic on their furniture,
the moth balls in their closet.
Salvation be the feeling of a surprising, cautious
calm in the afternoon air,
that you just can’t quite put your finger on,
because it is Me.