Safe
On my way to the obstetrician
I pass a street of venders.
Sparkling jewels reflect Soho light,
hand-knitted hats
parade without heads,
art set up like an obstacle course
on the sidewalk. One table
displays a collection of onesies
and infant rock tees. Marley
puffs in the center of one, next to
Joplin, her mouth wide open.
I eye Dylan, his rainbow hair
wild as Medusaโs snakes.
Youโin my belly
press on my bladder.
Thereโs an old Jewish provision
not to buy anything till the baby
arrives, alive.
Just to be safe, I adhere.
The Line
The trees make it look easy.
Dropping their leaves
as if never attached.
I clutch sorrow like
a passport in a foreign land.
The space by the Lincoln Memorial
is empty today. I picture it
as it was two nights ago.
The crowd chanting peace
holding candles against
the wind, re-lighting them
each time they extinguished.
The vigils I remember most
happen in a different city.
We walk from Prospect Park
across 7th Avenue,
walk for women who carry
faces of fear,
looking into eyes they love.
Survivors who have had embraces
turn into a battle of self-defense.
There is always some war to fight.
What if I became a tree
rooted strong in the rage
of all weather.
What if I chose to strip down
to a vessel of joy,
despite it all?
Gabriella Belfiglio is a recent fellow at the Saltonstall Arts Foundation. She’s a winner of the W.B. Yeats Poetry Award, and her writing has appeared most recently inย Paterson Review. She works as an artist and teacher in New York City, USA.
