by Gail Langstroth

On the curb a woman talks to a friend.
Her tightly parted hair bares nubs
of scalp scars.

I need a space painted dark: a place
to walk into, a place to break myself—
I need room to build me apart.

In the gutter, gum wrappers stick to the grate.
Straws and lids don’t fit
through the grid.

Two weeks
I have to vacate my rental.
Five lines in fine print,
I initialed the box.

I need a place: no thin
blue blinds, no fakes,
no pasteled stripes.

Last night I witnessed disappearance:
the last piccolo scream
of Gustav Mahler’s last symphony.

On undisturbed air the conductor arched back—
right then left—in invisible increments his palms
met the straight of his black jacket.

A place with no cargo trains
pressing steel into colorless
day and night.

For forty years, poet and eurythmist Gail Langstroth has collaborated and performed with international artists in North and South America, Japan, Spain, Germany, Russia, and Romania. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Drew University. She is part of Jan Beatty’s Voices in the Attic writing community. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Yemassee, Rust + Moth, Clay Bird Review, RUNE, and Passager Poetry. Visit her website at: http://www.wordmoves.com/