New York is not your lover. Open the oven,
The L train in summer, she is not making
Your dinner, not kissing your cheek hello
Not painting her face with bright lights—
She is not here to seduce you. She cooks
Burnt grilled cheese by the grease-filled
Trashcans of Union Square. Her hips
Are always shifting. She is more than
Bowery and Broadway, and she isn’t
Beautiful in the ways you have heard of.
In the pictures you have seen. 5th Ave is
A thousand cold exhales and punches
And she is just ginger, forcibly dyed pink,
Scaffolding hanging from her shoulder
In permanent reconstruction. She cradles
Neighbors, tells you apples are in season,
Where to buy your vitamins—they’re
3 for a few dollars at the corner bodega.
This, when you mold all her street names
to fit your mouth, can call her bridges,
bite off all five boroughs at once.
She motions you closer, a wave of her hand,
a whisper—she’s vulnerable like everyone else