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By Marie-Elizabeth Mali

Pulling out of Union Square station, the subway
sounds the first three notes of There's a place for us,
somewhere a place for us. A woman sits on me, shoves
her dim planet-face at mine and blames me
for not moving. My face half numb --
post-root canal. I want to incinerate her
with a blast from Shiva's third eye. But she
is Shiva, too. Give me back the luxury of blame.

Added: Wednesday, July 2, 2014  /  Used with permission.
Marie-Elizabeth Mali

Marie-Elizabeth Mali lives in New York City. She is a co-curator of louderARTS: the Reading Series at Bar 13 Lounge and Page Meets Stage at the Bowery Poetry Club and is a poetry editor for TIFERET: A Journal of Spiritual Literature. Her work has appeared in Calyx, MiPOesias, and RATTLE, among others.

Other poems by this author