Brooklyn is a diagram,
an atlas with
a body made of heartrending
pathways, at times strong,
occasionally tired, scarred, growing.
Brooklyn is relentless and real.
She’s mine. And hers.
But not yours, she says.
Brooklyn has charted
a lack of sacred space,
says its been stolen,
torn apart, burglarized.
She’s exiting this thing,
this mess of silence and disgust.
Says this vessel’s trading itself in
for a long-term relationship of resenting.
Brooklyn is all of these
where the trains dart by too hastily,
where she can’t catch a breath,
where is she going?