Learning to walk in Manhattan

Neal Boenzi / The New York Times

There is no language for this, no turn

Of phrase, only the street 

Orange with sodium

And rain-washed concrete. 

Then two arrivals: 

Winter falls and I sit 

At a diner booth, watch oyster crackers 

Shine salty pearl, recline on scalding

Broth before drowning. I know the feeling—

A year ago I slipped

Under clear bath water

Longing for quiet.

I felt my knees resist porcelain,

Fingertips pruning,

Neck craned skyward

And so came rushing back to the surface.

The second arrival

Is less precise,

A shift in the floorboards,

An unsettling of weather.

The city knows your arrival

And lays itself bare for you.

I become your shadow

By choice, envying

The way you open a door

Without knocking or needing

To become small.