by KELLY ZEN-YIE TSAI
On September 11th, we made beer milkshakes. Trader Joe’s French Vanilla Premium Ice Cream with Corona, and then a second round with Guinness. Ayinde, our expert, diligently battered the melting scoops with a long-handled spoon, tiltling to the left for leverage. They were frothy and light. The Guinness better than the Corona. Nine years ago, none of us lived here, but I was on a subway train creeping below Chambers Street. I don’t like to be away from New York in September.
if only to do
what love asks daily to do
inhabit our lives
I remember the sky’s purple green indigestion from childhood. The school drills of knees against cinder block walls. Siren wail the first Tuesday of every month. Fingers interlaced over craned necks and skulls. The teacher told us that it would prevent shattered glass from slicing our spinal cords. Someone else told me that their family’s house was lifted from the ground. I remember waiting in the basement with my parents – candles lit – perched among the remnants of their old oriental gift shop: a wooden sign in chop suey font, plastic bags stuffed with mother of pearl necklaces, ceramic horses glazed and crackled. I notice the burble in the distance, laugh to my lover, and tease that the tornado is going to get us. The Dunkin’ Donuts sign unhinges and swings. A gust of rain rips the aluminum gutter from the barber shop. We dash inside the Chinese restaurant. Down comes the beating of hail.
that was the midwest.
this is brooklyn. such things can’t
happen here, can they?
Kelly Tsai’s blog is Yellow Gurl