There’s a city in my heart,
And the city ticks
The way my body ticks,
And the streets follow the concave
Of my soft veins.
My city is built
Of the same flesh my heart is:
Unyielding flesh, earthy flesh,
My old-god flesh,
My singing flesh,
Flesh churned out of lakes
And of dark and familial soil.
That soil, it runs in my blood
And upon that soil
My hearty city was built.
A searing red vein cuts
Across white curls of buildings,
And people, my people, my people stir
In alleyways, in my arteries.
And the city’s roots dig deep
Into my stomach, cutting it open,
And the roofs of its buildings
Gnaw at my throat.
I wail—
My heart cannot contain
This angry, sorrowful,
Beautiful leviathan.
A city should never live
In such a tiny vessel.
It should burst out of my chest,
And my lungs and my brain
Should be paved in brick,
And my tongue should be rippling
With the language of those buildings.
And yet… and yet…
My skin keeps my body
Trapped in the clamor
Of its own bones,
And the roads fall to disuse
And only my blood remembers
The bitter taste of cement.
And yet…
And yet…
This city does not sit quietly:
It bubbles.
With limbs, and voices, and streetlights.
My blood froths against the fleshy walls
Of this architectural marvel,
And the footsteps of my city
Beat against its bloody sidewalks.
And so… and so…
This brick cannot part
From my body.
And so..
And yet…
My heart beats for those buildings.