Tasha

You used to write to me then, of furs and feathers and winters, an innocent frightened pen, bloodied in a tenement, you wrote of soothing kisses, in Harlem or the Bronx, Fulton Street summers, dollars, beds, your fancy business, within seething Brooklyn, you work the five and ten, leave me here in splinters, you’re not coming home again, to that terrible wonder, of poor and lonely resisters, laying down their lovers, now you help the weathered, you my rootless sister, donning boots and leathers, snarling like a Bittern..