On Christopher Street

When you’re gone, dear,
my hair seems like a waste of time
between my fingers.

I twirl these auburn curls like a tic,
count off days – there are
birds nests on my head.
Magic never happens in this place.

I hold curls between silver scissors,
satisfy memory. Sirens
go mad outside my window.

I look for you in crowds. There is
no peace in New York.
I try to cast certain kinds of spells;
I don’t have the words.

Copper colored wisps gather as rust, expiring.

Amy Schreibman Walter