December
BY JANELLE TAN
christmas eve and like every year,
frank sinatra sings about fates that might align.
the austrian driver
has the yule log playing on minimized
as she ferries me past one bridge,
then another.
some fate, a bridge
stretching its arms across bodies.
the cracked door of home we find
in the light of a screen.
my sweater gently tugging on my earring,
like you brushing against my sleeve
that night, a two-stop car ride, the referendum on my screen.
have they repealed it yet? you are sleepy.
no, not yet. but you’re almost home.
rest your head.
across the country today, you are
the room i want to be in.
a country only another person
turning out their pockets
on arrival
at a new somewhere.
the bodega sign reading SANDWISH
glowing red in the snow.
my hands want nothing
but for the roses to stop drying
in two days,
and your waist.
by now, i’m sure every strand
of hair in this house is mine.
still, the austrian driver and i pass
the WEBELONGHERE sign–
home, a pinprick of light
that disappears
when i reach out to hold it.
like the snow,
it is easier to begin again
than look you in the face.
Wayfinding
BY JANELLE TAN
wayfinding is a design system that allows one to find and navigate one’s way to a specific destination.
and as i board the 3 train,
the man next to me with the tip bag
tied to his guitar says, “take care, mama.”
the street performers
more reliable than any “downtown” sign.
in my kitchen, you tell me i am a new york city
landmark as the neighbors play
the same beat through my walls
for the fourth time that week.
where am i? i am
trying to hold you
without my arms around you.
on the train, there is spit on a seat–
and at every stop,
the man across the train car
and the woman next to me take turns
calling out, don’t sit there!
each time catching someone in time–
until those of us on the surrounding seats
knock into each other to fit
more of us where it is dry.
every day we perform small salvation.
everything we touch knows we’re still here.
at our best friend’s birthday, your fingers
find me. “i’m cold,” you whisper,
and i wrap my fur around both of us.
my ear, responsible
for balance and navigation,
resting on your cheek.
here, watching our friend read david berman i am guiding myself closer
to the god i believe in–
the god of your free hand
feeding me wine.
