Holy City

Every street has a cathedral

in the shape of our frames: 

pressed slim to entry 

two bodies reeking of wet 

wool as the puddles fill 

again and again with white light. 

He took me on a tour 

of brick square houses 

with flower boxes 

daffodils drowned yellow 

with lampshades and old

square bed frames. 

When we pull into an urban gas

station overgrown with pot 

holes and chain smoke strangers 

you curse at the wheel, 

Diesel spent and splintered glass

like promise in the pavement. 

How could I wish for any 

shrine besides the skeletal 

lines down bare legged 

avenues, garbage and 

breathy goodbyes on 

corners with wet exhaust. 

Once I told you horrible news 

in front of a hotdog stand and 

we had to laugh as the silver 

tongs scraped pans, 

choking on meaty air, the bees

don’t stop their honeymaking 

for grief or the dirty 

banks of snow

we sink our knees to

Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in One Art, The Shore, Red Weather, and The Basilisk Tree. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.