A Fresh Start
Wendy Becker

After my husband left, I was tired
of driving to the supermarket, drifting
through malls, jogging in circles
so I moved to Brooklyn where from my window I watch
the loose dogs roam, their long noses pushing
through chicken bones
as if they have lost something too. At night I ride the subway,
                                                                        first it sinks underground,
under houses and streets and the shuffling patterns
of shoes crossing the city. The women
who come home late lug groceries the children
fall behind their arms stretched like clotheslines slipping
from under their jackets.
                                                                               We slip out and rise
 
over the water and Chinatown. I stare
onto rooftops, into rooms, past a curtain, a kiss,
a hurled pot, anything. Up here,
I am safe enough to remember mistakes,
 
the way our dog would break loose
to get laid as if he knew more about passion
than we did. When his puppies rotted inside our neighbors Collie
and she died we knew our lives were unraveling
like old sweaters in drawers stuffed
with the smell of what multiplied under the sink. You couldn’t find anything
in that mess let alone hold it together.

Over Chinatown the lights blink on and off
and the strands start to shiver
in the water. I find clues in everything. Following
the red and green trails on the subway map I hear someone say if you’re not sure,
don’t do it. I watch couples
hold hands, lean into each other
like houses sharing their beams. The train rattles as we bridge
back to this city, as I stare past its map
with too many streets left to roam.