Aldina Vazao Kennedy

You lay me by the Hudson. By the Prison.
Searchlight tower gone dark in kiddie park.

You came to Ossining to fetch me back.
Drove to Bronx, 2 am, for Kansas Chicken.

But I couldn’t eat, not behind their bullet-
proof glass. Not by grass, nor rocks, nor River.

Undid my strappy shoes and wet my knees.
We used to tease: fish here have three eyes.

I wished for one to jump five feet high to me.
But nothing jumped. Fish here swim furtively.

You touched my hair, then left cheek, nose, lidded
eyes, and beading downy skin leading to my lips.

Slid down my chin, round my neck, to my chest.
Stopped. My hands stilled. Half aware of where

I was. I recall flying, watching, herons
billing, shad running, hunting seagulls.

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