Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
From the 21 st Floor
As the elevator lurched upward
against gravity, the seconds tumbled
like small pieces of fruit. In
the hallway, as polished as a hospital,
the dominoes of common doors. And over yours
your abbreviated name. We teeter
above Brooklyn—the Verrazano to the left,
the Empire State: center, Sheepshead Bay
to the right—high over Brighton Beach, in a building
of Russians and Jews. In the lobby,
a sign doubles in Russian. Residents each know
the wait for the lift
as it pulls upward—up over a city.
From here, we can see
the mouth of the country—used
to change. We no longer speak
of the missing Twin Towers as we watch
the July fireworks drop starbursts
along the water. The long ride up.
The long ride down. The long streets
you walked as a boy now dim
with block-like buildings.
The lights inside point
to each detached life, at night,
when the streets fill with darkness,
and with no accent of any kind,
except on this holiday, with popping sounds.
We look for gunshots. But the streets
are empty. They are far
beneath us.
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 115