I made a room of light.
I built the walls, I built the shelves.
And I put a snow globe in the center to hold a memory of the room.
I left when I felt it had gotten too crowded so I walked all the way to Hasidic
Williamsburg but there were too many people in the streets celebrating the holiday
so I walked to the water where I could finally hold something in its entirety.
I peered into the windows of the water so I could see nothing look back at me.
I knew something was wrong when I begun to believe in the water. I thought I saw
something grow in it, be something more than water. I stuck my hand into the bath water
and brushed against a needle eye. It was so small water could not move through it but
only around it. The doctors couldn't even see it when they put a magnifying glass up to
it. I didn't dare pick up the needle, I could barely stand to look at it. It was still
there when I went home on the train. I threaded through the industrial part of your city,
the orthodox part of mine, and wondered if we were seeing the same thing at all. I beat
up a lamppost because I saw it in the movies. The moonlight bled all over the sidewalks,
against the streetlights.