First published by Magma Poetry
On a sweltering spring day,
children flitted in fire hydrant spray
on Manhattan’s lower east side.
They sprinted, skipped, and danced.
Oblivious to passersby that traipsed toward
jobs or homes or dull diversions,
the children played, arms splayed, chins raised
like moonflowers greeting morning dew.
They capered as if the cosmos collapsed
into droplets to drench their skin,
as if laughter lapped over their empty cupboards,
their lagged textbooks, the bodega gig
that waited in the wings
for the lucky among them. They played
like gems beaded between their fingers
while we lingered to watch — stock brokers,
broke teachers, broken businesspeople,
the Banh Mi vendor. We stood riveted,
veins pulsating as we tasted salt
of skin shimmering in sunlight,
and for one moment,
stifling heat subsided.