Janlori Goldman
River, River
Hudson, I see you out my window, hunching
against your banks, shrouded in cloud—
please, river, no morose spring,
don’t let this be a season of murky water,
of styrofoam chunks and limp condoms.
Let frogs rise. Let tourists in kayaks paddle
hapless. Bring me one silly seagull
perched on a piling and I’ll take it
as a sign of supple days to come.
My sweetheart coughs in the back room,
the same cough since January.
People everywhere hacking deep in the lungs—
on the subway yesterday I gave a dollar
to a sick woman pleading for change.
Isn’t this how to make it right
when the numbers are crushing?
Maybe I should keep it simple,
count one by one, two by
two, buckle my shoe—
moving with your tide, a passenger ferry chugs by
carrying workers to their desks,
they’ll sign in, stare at a screen,
buy a coffee from the cart guy,
do it all again the next day— rhythm of the suit
and sensible heel. The hours pass and still
that wet wool sweater
refuses to lift off your water.
Janlori Goldman is the author of Bread from a Stranger’s Oven (White Pine Press, 2017), chosen by Laure-Anne Bosselaar for the 2016 White Pine Press Poetry Prize; and Akhmatova’s Egg (Toadlily Press, 2013). Her work has appeared in The Cortland Review, Mead, Gwarlingo, Connotation Press, Calyx, Gertrude, Mudlark, The Sow’s Ear, Rattle, Contrary, and other journals.