For Moscow in November
Letting the snow collect over my shoulders
The last of my belongings towed onto the train
Too idealistic to remember in a poem
For goodbye
When you mumbled something in Chechen
And handed me a Matryoshka doll
Which I held
Together in my fist
and you chase the train
and you chase the train
and I earned my remorse
for terrible goodbyes

For a childhood of change
Cigarettes and big bus gasoline
For a new town everyday
And falling asleep at dawn
On sheets that are only yours
On lease
Knowing you’ve reached your potential
At eleven
And you’ll never see a crowd like this again
And you’ll never hear this song again

For the love of my Father
beaten down like the drums
that he pounds with his fists
armored with his awards
building himself from the crowded
one room apartment
In Brooklyn
that he only
lets me see
and only let’s me know
how weak he is
letting himself
be measured
by the men
he’s had to dinner

For the love of my Mother
rough by default
beautiful by force
whose hair brightens in summer
and whose eyes brighten as
she walks into the woods and it grows darker
who rides Andalusians
and never learned to cook
and who is
never her own
but always mine

For Mumbai on New Years Eve
For first glasses of Champaign
With 20,000,000 people
In a hookah bar
Then outside
Recording the streets
Painted royal over the poverty
Letting sweat collect on our arms because
It’s the first night of our lives
and we will never smell the spicy air
or reach a new year
quite like this again
lying
your hair sewn into the Indian skyline
and mine carelessly tossed
into longest gutter in the world
as we record our every new moment
to remember

For Tomorrow