Brandon Lewis lives in NYC with his wife and baby daughter. He received an MFA in poetry at George Mason University and is the former poetry editor of Porcupine. His writing is published or forthcoming in such journals as Salamander, HTMLgiant, Poet Lore, Harpur Palate, Fifth Wednesday, Entasis, Fogged Clarity, Water~Stone Review, and Oranges and Sardines.
You’ve found out I am an unsteady horse, galumphing
past neon storefronts
all the while honing my concentration
on your callipygian grip
—the only certainty is that muscles give. Trammeling
steel curb girders rusted,
I see why you call the city an amazon
not a princess, nor brother
nor king. Your voice glides and braids
the texture of your hair,
each swaying the sides of my nape
you have yet to kiss.
My knees gradually undermine as they propel us, swelling
as the knees Caravaggio scraped off
with his pallet-knife, before attempting again to replicate
the bulwark of St. John’s knees.
And so it is here on the dais of a park bench amid
the rats of Tompkins Square
that you must dismount, open palms, touch earth,
make the beloved more visible.