an Irish woman is a bird to watch,
they say in grizzled folksongs
some tall tales do not have the breath
of the Empire State
she is the haunting
that made you believe in ghosts as a child
I cannot recall the way the past
once sat like something to be wounded
so I slip into the heat of New Jersey
and enjoy the simplicity it carries inside its belly
the narratives that the garden state is only
the dried-up blood from a shark’s feast
are boring me
crime scenes rarely paint the same strokes
of Pollock
no scatter of life is made
on accident
If you want to hear of a woman
who lived despite life
trying to take it from her—
visit New Jersey.
the sand bars that simmer on the shoreline
are not the only lies she will tell you
“all you see is all you get”
there is always something waiting
in the shadows to be dripped
with sunlight
once a child,
berry-kissed cheeks
and knees that felt spring’s fingertips
the pond used to be a gentle thing
If you want to live in the garden state,
first you have to survive it.