In August it’s hard not to want –
everything heavy with it – ginkgo fruit
rots on sidewalks, sweat falls down spines,
the whole beast city breathes in smog and breathes out
low clouds dropping lightning. Confused,
a little, reading subway signs
for revelation, it all comes up
wonder – which pre-historic lizard
dragged itself up into daylight just
so you could buy Calvin Klein underwear
and forget to call your mom on purpose?
Who’s your manager, Saint Sebastian?
Maimonides? What day of the week
is it? How did you get this number?
Rumi, I told you to stop calling
my motel. I need to be alone
for a long time, ride the empty train
over the bridge back and forth, commune
with Whitman above the East River.
Where else do you go to ask when summer
cherry pit spits questions into your lap?
Whose ghost do I see on street corners?
When does the weight lift? What do I do
with this little bit of time I’ve caught
to live inside? What do I do now
I want to eat every apple, seed
stem core? Who belongs, who decides?
Does want end with get? And if not –
Birch Wiley is a transsexual poet living in New York. Birch’s work can be found in Union Spring Literary Review and is forthcoming in Pleiades and Querencia Quarterly, among others. Their debut collection, Mythweaver, will be published by new words {press} in summer 2025. You can learn more about them at linktr.ee/birchwiley.