Arms

    I'm late for the birth-

    day party， it's one

    of those cool after-

    noons when the world

    is clear， is made

    of glass， the sky

    so blue you want to

    look up at the very

    center of its pupil

    in case you get

    a glimpse of what

    comes after

    we leave here.  I'm

    thinking my lover's

    sister is thirty-two

    today， but I want

    to let time stand

    still， let the tourists

    go on waving their

    America the Beautiful

    flags across 49th

    Street， let the three

    ladies whose hair

    is the color of smoke

    rising and ghosts

    taking leave of their

    senses go on laughing，

    near the fountain， may

    we all not have

    a care in the world.  But

    it's August 23rd，  I must

    get on the train， yet

    a tree keeps holding

    my attention， its leaves

    luscious from the summer

    rain， there's a canopy

    beneath which the Pakistani

    man I talked to last

    week sells his salty

    sauerkraut， lifting

    the lid and letting out

    steam each time he

    serves it over hot

    dogs， and the man

    pays him then turns

    toward me， his thick

    muscled arm tan

    in the sun， the tattoo：

    BORN

    FOR

    WAR.  The day

    is gone， the people

    around me gone， I am

    trying not to forget

    that I'm a pacifist，

    trying not to pay

    attention to his name-

    brand shorts and sun

    glasses that won't

    let you see a glint

    of eye behind them，

    I'm trying not to watch

    him eat the hot dog in two

    bites and nudge the woman

    beside him who pushes

    a stroller， his arm around

    her waist as he pivots and

    sees me staring.  Yes he might

    leap to the right， grab

    my throat punch

    me shoot me gut

    me clean as a fish

    taken from the black glass

    of the city's river street， but

    the church bells are tolling，

    people are saying

    their prayers three blocks

    from here in the hushed

    dark.  So I take a deep

    breath and am no longer

    here， I haven't been

    born yet， there is no state

    of California， no Gold

    Rush or steam

    engine， electricity hasn't

    been invented， people

    cross open spaces

    on horses， no Middle

    Passage， and I watch

    the Huns kill the Visigoths

    who slice the throats

    of every living

    Etruscan， a crowning

    city is razed， the virgins

    raped， one nation

    fights for land

    to walk on， then are

    walked on until

    someone carves on a cave

    wall， then someone

    writes on papyrus，

    until we do it all

    again， right up to

    concentration camps， rivers

    flowing with nuclear

    waste.  49th Street

    floods back， and the man

    with the tattoo turns

    away， as if he's decided

    not to crack my skull

    open and drink me

    today， the 965th day

    of the new century.  War

    goes into fifth month.  The church

    bells stop and the ladies

    get up and walk

    toward Radio City

    and while I don't believe

    in an eye for an eye， I have

    a flash lasting no longer

    than it takes for a nuclear

    blast to render this city

    invisible， shadow

    of a human arm I've torn

    from its socket， its left

    hand gripping the air.