tight braids coiled into isles and continents

against our scalps, birthmarks and scars

marking city blocks like melanistic push pins.

here, in that spot behind your ear

is the French café on Amsterdam Avenue

where we had polished silver and fresh cream

linen and gilded menus too big for our hands.

there, in the line of my scalp above my nape

are the streets in SoHo where we chased the sun

down cobblestone mazes and around brick parapets

burning cold orange in the January gloaming.

the lights of Times Square are stars on our faces

gold and silver freckles burning five-pointed holes

into the bone beneath. they brand us saying “you are mine

and you’ll never be happy anywhere else.”