Roy Jacobstein

Birdsong beyond the bedroom 
      window, and the greening rush 
            of the leaves, and everywhere 

we go, we drive, so you tell all
      your Soho pals you've moved 
             to the suburbs and well into fall 

you cull your aromatic Thai basil 
      from our communal plot's parsley
             and chive, to spice your fiery wok. 

You know no neighborhood in D.C.
      comes closer to New York, its islands
            of immigrants, its tongues and cuisines. 

(Dominicans hawking mangoes, rosaries, 
      merengue tapes; Rastas in tricolored berets  
            syncopating One Love; the ceviche, felafel,  

doner kebap.) Still, you're homesick, 
      and where this Rust Belt refugee fits, 
            I don't ask.—I just press the humid air 

between us until we're nothing 
      but the basil, the wok, and the flame. 


Copyright © Roy Jacobstein All rights reserved

Shenandoah, Winter 2005