New Mexico Mercury

I held the glass suspended
between fingertips,
as firm a grip as any lover’s
thighs. My world churned
with the alcohol, as volatile
when exposed to air.

It was the first bar we passed
when we left the park.
“This must be where all the white
people go,” you said
as we canvassed the dim
in search of stools.

We’d dated two months,
and the last couple
weeks I only didn’t know
we were broken up.
I couldn’t blame you for wanting
to dump me to my face.

So you waited ’til I was down again
from Albany. Getting off
the A train at 181st, I came
’round the stairs and slammed
into the one soul on the platform.
A moment’s fear screamed,

Angry black man! before I remembered
I was supposed to be
an activist, not a bigot, and I’d
been the one staring at my feet
and not where they were taking me.
My tensed muscles and clenched teeth turned

to shrug, smile and “sorry.”
He smiled back, nodded, moved
on, released me to face dangers
more real. I wouldn’t
tell you the story, sure
you’d like me less for it.

I was early and not brave enough
to hang out a glance from
the George Washington Bridge alone
after dark. So your ex-girlfriend
was still there, and yes, I’d been so
unhelpful to the work between you,

but I didn’t expect to find you
so displeased to see me.
When she was gone, we walked
the hill to a quiet spot
in the park, where you recited
the great history

I’ve forgotten so much of:
a fiancé, a something
gone wrong, a commitment
to not commit.
The latest ex, how you went so long
without seeing anyone else,

she thought you’d gone monogamous.
The night that changed, you didn’t
notice me tucked into a chair. I’d followed
the sounds of En Vogue and
your voice from the party outside. You danced
closer and slower with two

more activists. I was a little sad not
to touch you, a little glad
you’d be getting laid, a little angry
those two so neglected
the body I so craved, and much too shy
to ask if a fourth might be welcome.

Coming down from the guest attic
to use the bathroom, I heard you
with them in the shower, their voices
distinguished by gender alone. You spoke
loudly of how you hoped no one heard
how loud you were last night.

On the park bench, I looked straight ahead
across the grass, away from you.
As you spoke on I thought, Good thing I didn’t
get those flowers and I wish
I’d brought different pjs and I’m glad you spoke
first, before I could say I love you.

At last you came to your other
boyfriend, your other girlfriend,
how when she told you she saw
you holding my hand, you understood,
how you’d go monogamous
for her, how you knew it would end.

My unbroken tears surprised you.
I couldn’t blame you for believing
I felt no more than you did for me.
Then we came to the white people’s bar
to drink away tears. Between

my fingertips, a ring of liquid light
’round a pale brown center, not
at all the color of its namesake. A mudslide
that comforts, not threatens. But you
were at my side, and I was already sliding.