The bloody red things in our chests

Are common to us, are they not?

They pump in existence lingering in the cavity

We hear them thudding and shuddering

Like little cardinals shrouded in a forest

We do not know what they look like

These bloody red things are hidden

covered by skin and flesh

Unbeknownst to our eyes

A rare species

Wouldn't it be nice to see

the bloody red thing in your chest

The pulse on your wrist feels awfully nice

against my fingers like a feather

The slight lift of your breath

Flutters like wings

sounds like a bird call

I would peer through binoculars

in the hope of seeing it fly toward me

The heart that sang to mine

A picture of cheesy smiles on our family couch

Posing to capture our squeezed positions

From the surface, the wrinkles on my mother's dress

are just wrinkles

and not the aftermath of our crumpling hugs

My father’s arms around our shoulders don't do his embrace justice

of when he used to tuck us into our beds

My siblings’ frozen smiles

reminds me of moments under kitchen lights

Silent laughter amidst sleeping parents

The glasses I wear are smudged even then

comfortable with the fogged-up lens

Unaware of the coming shift

of for-sale signs

Strangers looking into our rooms

Asleep in our beds

Eating in our kitchen

Sitting on our couch

I wonder if they have a photo there now

If I lived in New York,
I would go on morning runs across the Brooklyn Bridge

Stop there to catch my breath, overlooking the city

Harness the incentive to take care of my body

leaner stomach, faster legs

If I lived in New York 

I would stop at fresh markets and pick glistening produce to put in whatever meal I decided to cook that evening

If I lived in New York
maybe I would wear a Knicks hat not because it looks fashionable
but because I would genuinely be a Knicks fan
go to baseball games with a numbered jersey shrugged on my shoulders

Then maybe I wouldn’t feel like a fraud
Instead be perceived as just another thread in a city bursting in its seams

Wouldn’t that change everything?

Would it change the mundanity of whatever

Life it is I live

Or would the run get tiring

The fruits get rotten

The hats over worn

The seams all frayed

Over the waves I hear

The clatter of metal cups

The chatter of my siblings

And the laughter of my parents

Over the waves I see

Golden sails

The sun saying goodnight

In the air I smell

The warm chai over a burner stove

Salted sea on my cheeks

In my soul I feel