—The New York Times Magazine, January 7, 2018
has its tail notched from cannibalism or close escapes,
an ear divoted by mercy of some other kind. In Harlem,
an ear divoted by mercy of some other kind. In Harlem,
the solo-lugging of such a ginormous hunk of Moon Pie
is causing the shadow-animal to draw attention to itself,
though the eyes flash Fuck you to passersby, the traffic.
The cold is extreme for even winter in New York City;
little rat-breath-clouds form and dissipate by the stairs.
There is music from the open stage door at the Apollo,
music that sounds like the heart of the world is nicked.
Tonight, the singer is telling us she wants to be loved.
If the rat is a fan, it’s because she sees New York City
as neither hell nor heaven but a place the Lucky grab
what they can of what’s most enticing, even a Moon
Pie trailing marshmallow and chocolate like a flesh.
