Jude Marr is the author of Breakfast for the Birds (Finishing Line, 2017). Her poems have appeared in The Cortland Review, Black Heart Magazine, and Cherry Tree among others. In 2014, she received an honorable mention for her submission to the Frankye Davis Mayes Prize sponsored by the Academy of American Poets. Jude has an MFA in creative writing from Georgia College and in 2015 she became a PhD student at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. She is poetry editor for the online journal r.kv.ry. For more on Jude's work go to judemarr.com
Pacing My Neighborhood, Midtown Atlanta
On Marietta Street, an old light pole rusts through
and falls, wind-whacked, across snaggletooth
sidewalk. I step over wires to where broken
pavers heave out of Georgia’s red earth: traffic snaps
at my heels as I cross the street on green, seeing no one
but the man who sells umbrellas
on downpour days—
he asks me for a dime. His hand
contains a fractal wave of coins, as proof; his palm seams
ancient as Tigris and Euphrates—
I move smoothly as a jointed
doll along Hollowell, past the teen who capers
round my aging self, his body beautiful, his mouth full
of honey—I’m not real—
by the Mobil station
there’s a package store sells vodka by the quarter pint
in plastic bottles. One woman, liquored up, pushes
a damson hand against my face. You got ID? she asks. Show me
ID—
I’m on Lowery now. This is my street. Boarded
homes, fragile as leaf-skeletons; oak-shaded, empty lots; porch
life; preachers. Can I give you a pamphlet? No? Okay. Jesus loves you
anyway—
unrequited, I ignore my cracked stair, my mailbox
hanging by a nail, and pace on—
left onto Boone where, close
to the dollar store, a yard contains players with a stake
in every game; the host nods as I pass. ’Sup, sister? he says, graceful
as a man who owns his house, who knows my place—
his dress shirt
radiates. Blinded, I nod back.