I wear the street’s meaty perfume,
Greek souvlaki joints,
overripe peaches.
Chassidic men walk to shul;
fierce beards and wide brims
crowd the sidewalk,
longsleeved daughters
watch from porches.
Portuguese neighbors
dig among the purple and
yellow-red of tiny front gardens.
I roll each language in my mouth,
suck the fruit down to stone.
The city fattens me,
rounding calves, tilting breasts.
A Roméo leans over the balcony,
moist lips ready to taste as
I float, sleek and full,
past junk stores, graffiti,
shining blank gravestones.
I could die happy here,
in the street’s hot embrace.
