by Nora Rawn
If I had to say when I fell in love
with New York, maybe it was the day
I left the Met to wander the reservoir alone, teenaged,
free, no cell phones, halcyon age of unsupervision
or maybe it was the influence of Felicity (1998-2002),
her beautiful curls and tenure
at Dean & Deluca (dearly departed),
vague visions of never-realized love triangles
certainly it wasn’t winter cold, or midtown avenues,
or even the quiet shrine of the old Monet room at MoMA
off the stairs, silent sanctuary,
and not the crowds or fancy dinners
no, realistically, electrically, it was perhaps
the planes flying into the towers
the rubble and dust the articles at the
breakfast table of what might lay ahead
and the need somehow to
be there myself
______
Nora Rawn works in subrights in publishing and lives in Brooklyn. She occasionally reviews books at KGB Lit. She spends too much time on Twitter under @norabird.
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