Passing Three Women in Midtown

by Melanie Perish

In O’Shea’s, amnesia smells of Irish whisky

and Camels. I am alert to tainted saints. At the bar,

two men and one woman sit. The men know she’s

hands-off. This is ordinary magic. They heard

she’s s got a conceal carry permit and reads Tarot.

In front of Black Hole Body Piercing

bike racks rise—other-worldly—shaped

like giant nose rings. Distracted, I almost collide

with a woman who could be me—a face

like repurposed brick on this building,

but no door into her eyes.

Across the street, the Libido Shop shouts

GOING OUT OF BUSINESS. A young woman 

from the 6th floor pulls at the door, hesitates,

remembers she grew up in a house where

faded papered drawers opened and shut

in every bedroom, and once her father caught

his fingers in a mousetrap behind the TV.

She wants to leave this city for one in the West,

but hasn’t said so. She is no saint, reveals

no magic here, but her hesitation

gestures a tender grace. She’s always seen herself

stepping out of the tub—a galaxy of bubbles on skin.