Pittsburgh interrogates me with questions tongued in sleet and rain.
I tell her I’m not from this place, but she may consume me if she likes.
She smiles in bitter cold and wraps me in her steel underbelly and
I know that this is what it means to be reborn.
In her bowels we discuss certain matters of the heart: my lover
is many miles away, I tell her. He does not know these streets, these
severed neighborhoods. He only knows rain when it is a divine relief from drought.
He cannot comprehend your perfervid relentlessness.
He is what I was.
I tell her that I cannot, will not stay much longer. Time demands
the passage of people. It has been two years since I blew into
these cobbled hills tucked between smokestacks. To her face, I say
I will not call you home.
But your name will be stamped on my degree and I will always
remember that you are the reason I bought my very first umbrella.
To my dry veins your winters are heresy, infectious apostasy.
In my next home, the umbrella will lean against a corner, a gelid reminder
of the wet seasons we spent together. In my next home, I will examine my lover’s
back in the moonlight and I will think of this moment.
Deep in the summer heat of September, writing an ode to your winters,
digging my nails into your hardened flesh, and confessing to you
matters of the heart that you never asked for.
Anna Fischer writes about female empowerment, literature and art. She’s really into bagels. Write to her at email@example.com.
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