There Are No Wild Dogs In Brooklyn Heights

A skyline of wonders with a phantasmal attraction. The soapy comfort of store-bought flowers. Too pink, too sweet. Fragments in the sky on a day you’re brazen enough to look up. And they’re running. Just like you. Waiting to be shot down. Head back to Ainslie Avenue. Catapult your mind to somewhere more convenient when asked for money on the street. Paint filling your eyes—too pink, too sweet. Dreams lost in a friendly melee. Wish to feel aghast but fail to mount the energy. Close your eyes for the kettling—too pink, too sweet. Your tongue feels wet. The bath is full of memories. Choppy water. Too pink, too sweet. The post office is on strike. The missile base is open. Chop chop. Too pink, too sweet. Gather around the fire for fine lines and doleful looks. Rippling through the cabaret of consequences. Placemats. Speeding tickets. Drums and placards. Chop chop. A blithe comment to a friend. Regret. Chop chop. Grew out of posters, this is about framing. Chop chop. The avocet that nobody thinks about. Too pink, too sweet. Back into the cupboard. Still in the house but unlikely to make the cut in the next move. Cut cut.

You choose to go on, bridled in the squall. Alone on the beach. The fear and me. Dark green. A cool wind. Pain. Hope. Nowhere to go when they say home.

---

 

Tessa McHattie is a Canadian poet residing in Brooklyn, NY. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Shoegaze Literary, Eunoia Review, and Star*Line, among others.