By Albert Thomas
Today is Georgia, and we are on the outs.
Between it all, we are not dripping. We are
washing against fence posts white and
the mortar chips we carry across Limits.
Only songs drifted through before today.
The Northside is strewn with magic,
they’ll tell you, like one night stands
in the middle of the day. Here, it’s like the
Southside, but bursting with everything
that makes the City. Ask and they’ll tell
You. These are Levitt towns. These are
lemonades. These are canary quartets
keeping wind and brothers to understand
you were born with them ringing—like
colors, ringing. Ask and they’ll tell you.
The magic reminds you of Georgia,
your daughter, and how you made her
at twelve thirty six. Now with nothing
moving, you are less South and it is today.
Do not hold doors. Do not lean on doors.
Albert Thomas is a poet living in Brooklyn. He graduated from Yale, where he majored in Political Science and African-American Studies with a poetry concentration. He has participated in many workshops, including the Sackett Street Writer’s Workshop with Jenny Zhang.
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