On the Day Pat Quinn Told Me Not to Leave My House
by Amy David
Chicago is known for its fire, not the water
that put it out, but today, the city has gone
biblically wicked: my basement is an aquarium
of third grade report cards, the hydrant
is suffocating, and a man got a DUI
just for leaving his driveway. I want you
to admit it’s not your heart
that’s throbbing. This is the prettiest
you have ever seen it, the sinkhole
at 96th and Houston as the city’s
gapped tooth, an entire block
of disappointment and injury. Your panting
keeps up with the hazards flashing
outside your window and you are hoping
for a road flare climax. You don’t believe
in too much of a good thing, not even
when the sewers wave up, bringing the rats
to your level. You don’t care about
the difference between concrete and cement
or how each one can be used
by a man, you just long to feel the surface
scatter at footfall. You don’t have to work
on Thursdays and the roof of your apartment
is solid, but you can’t bear to stay dry
when there are Sirens moaning in the streets.
The governor has declared a state of emergency,
the newsheads spin with panic: people die
like this, their cars suddenly swamped,
the front door a tackling sled for the currents,
but you are smug about your escape
plan, put all your trust in the sunroof,
you are certain you are smarter
than the surge. You are not a man
who can love a sidewalk that only gets
you to the right place, the fifth
square marked with shallow letters
that meant something to someone
else but appear to you just the monogram
of a bubblegum pop star and the seventh
pocked with two weak dots above the curved flick
of a smile, the gentle puddle that asks
you to take three steps into the street,
the hesitant curb or the brittle moment
when your right foot lords above the left, no, you
want to be knee-deep in disruption,
the rip tiding into your boots, the invited pain
of standing on your own wrinkled toes,
and the torrent, the burst, the rush
of rain overloading the city like a sour chord
blowing out an amp, the way you really
believe you could convince this flood to stay.
Amy David is a poet, performer, and Ph.D. student from Chicago, IL. She has competed at the National Poetry Slam three times as a member of the Chicago – Green Mill team and will be making a fourth appearance this August. Her work has appeared most recently in WordRiot, Shit Creek Review, and Foundling Review.
