Metro Approaching darkness marking her unrest, she licks her metal teeth and, shivering, looks down upon her concrete steel-framed breast, at smoky windows, blind and unblinking. The city, maze of lacework, glass and wire, scatters sparks along wet veins, her streets aflood with dirty sunset, pulsing fire. The traffic, her misshapen heart, beats some throbbing dirge, disturbs with urging cry— O backwards lullaby— the pitch and moan of subway tracks beneath my pillow, sky all scraped by stars, the grinding chime. Alone, the city curls around herself to weep washing dusk away with rain and sleep.
Pia Simone Garber earned her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Alabama. Some of herpoems can be found in the Anthology Tuscaloosa Runs This. She currently lives in Staten Island, NY with her cat and husband, where she is working on her first chapbook.
Grand Little Things 