in Tornado Alley, where the ground opens up once in a while before it seals back up, you get a few glimpses, an upskirt of the city. What was once home of a lovers' quarrel became aerial bombings of black neighborhoods. What was once home of the Lohapoka is now home to the hokey-pokey. Not much I make of this, this before my time, this I didn't do it . Except everything is glued to me, nailed there on a poster. In Tulsa I am alone. True, in a who cares kind of way. More feeling I'd been planted in someone else's country. I mean the way I strode, tilted my head, little jokes I'd tell cashiers wouldn't even bring a stare. So I thought of cities where we fix our attention on the sidewalk, not to be penetrated by leers, not to let strangers see how years have twisted our expressions. Oil told the story here, the way the Triangle fire told the story of the Weinbergs, Greenspans and Cohens. I stood on that corner at Washington Place last year: there too when I closed my eyes ashes stirred the air.
IRA SADOFF'S most recent collection of poems, True Faith (BOA Editions), was chosen as one of 2012's most notable books of poetry. He teaches in the MFA program at Drew University.
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|Title Annotation:||three poems|
|Publication:||The American Poetry Review|
|Date:||Nov 1, 2013|
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