I’m late for the birth-

day party, it’s one

of those cool after-



noons when the world

is clear, is made

of glass, the sky



so blue you want to

look up at the very

center of its pupil



in case you get

a glimpse of what

comes after



we leave here.  I’m

thinking my lover’s

sister is thirty-two



today, but I want

to let time stand

still, let the tourists



go on waving their 

America the Beautiful

flags across 49th



Street, let the three

ladies whose hair

is the color of smoke



rising and ghosts

taking leave of their

senses go on laughing,



near the fountain, may

we all not have 

a care in the world.  But



it’s August 23rd,  I must

get on the train, yet 

a tree keeps holding 



my attention, its leaves

luscious from the summer

rain, there’s a canopy



beneath which the Pakistani

man I talked to last

week sells his salty



sauerkraut, lifting

the lid and letting out 

steam each time he



serves it over hot

dogs, and the man

pays him then turns



toward me, his thick

muscled arm tan

in the sun, the tattoo:



BORN

FOR

WAR.  The day



is gone, the people

around me gone, I am

trying not to forget



that I’m a pacifist,

trying not to pay

attention to his name-



brand shorts and sun

glasses that won’t

let you see a glint



of eye behind them,

I’m trying not to watch

him eat the hot dog in two 



bites and nudge the woman

beside him who pushes

a stroller, his arm around



her waist as he pivots and

sees me staring.  Yes he might

leap to the right, grab



my throat punch

me shoot me gut

me clean as a fish



taken from the black glass

of the city’s river street, but

the church bells are tolling,



people are saying

their prayers three blocks

from here in the hushed



dark.  So I take a deep

breath and am no longer

here, I haven’t been



born yet, there is no state

of California, no Gold

Rush or steam



engine, electricity hasn’t 

been invented, people

cross open spaces



on horses, no Middle

Passage, and I watch 

the Huns kill the Visigoths 



who slice the throats 

of every living

Etruscan, a crowning 



city is razed, the virgins

raped, one nation

fights for land



to walk on, then are

walked on until 

someone carves on a cave



wall, then someone 

writes on papyrus, 

until we do it all 



again, right up to

concentration camps, rivers 

flowing with nuclear



waste.  49th Street

floods back, and the man

with the tattoo turns



away, as if he’s decided

not to crack my skull 

open and drink me 



today, the 965th day

of the new century.  War

goes into fifth month.  The church



bells stop and the ladies

get up and walk

toward Radio City 



and while I don’t believe 

in an eye for an eye, I have

a flash lasting no longer



than it takes for a nuclear

blast to render this city

invisible, shadow



of a human arm I’ve torn

from its socket, its left

hand gripping the air.