Corners

By Enzo Silon Surin

On West Bryn Mawr and Broadway

someone calls your name, an ugly strut

commands his legs—your own imagines

water, buckles—sudden night crawler

behind a stretched row of parked cars.

You grow neck-first without a face

under the shield of broken street lamps,

heart's galumphing thump thump thump.

You hear your name again—rougher

—unlike a call from someone next door

or that of a friend freelancing a stopover;

gargoyle in you gargling. Will you breach

the quiet, boast your crew? If only there

was another way to make the nights glow.

How long will you lie there pretending

to swim? Steady your breath—minutes

from now, a sharp pop will render

another you hospital bound. Unfinished,

block to block a fire-bound—sirens

declaring your whereabouts all evening.

Enzo Silon Surin, "Corners" from When My Body Was A Clinched Fist. Copyright © 2020 by Enzo Silon Surin. Reprinted by permission of Black Lawrence.

Source: When My Body Was A Clinched Fist (Black Lawrence, 2020)