By Ari Banias
View with a cathedral in it,
sooty. Fountain with the face of a merman
about to spit water through
chipped lower lip but
holding it in.
Another postcard rack.
Another stall at the market
displaying African waxprints
on tote bags, dresses, broad skirts
sold by a white man. I copy a list
of French colonies and their dates
into a blank white notebook.
On a bed of ice
haphazard piles of silver-grey fish. “The eye
should be clear,” said my mother.
I don’t want to look
at the eye. What’s visible
from inside a Brutalist building.
linoleum tiles c. 1961, of a sturdy kind
the year my mother emigrates.
What’s visible alongside
a nearly motionless canal.
Alongside a river
romantic, like a few-weeks fling
that soon splits in two directions.
Irrepressible bodies of water
surrounded by buildings from centuries prior
whose filigrees gather soot
as excess definition.
Wreathed in trash
and repulsive endures.
The exterior of the famous museum
once a fortress
behind large scaffolds fitted with tarps
screenprinted to mimic
the exterior of the famous museum.
One vertical band of newly-washed portion
bare and ridiculous beside the
car-crammed thoroughfare. Piss
against trees and walls and the seams where walls meet
trickles and stinks like a moat.
In a concavity where the likeness
of another wealthy person once stood
The oxidized face
of a statue of some goddess
streaked in it.
In the gay club the dancer showers in front of us live
behind glass coyly
not revealing his dick
while screens project him digitized
in slight distortion on either side of him.
He snaps a small white towel
in front of himself and keeps it up
against the glass with his own weight.
Under this dancefloor
across from the bathrooms
a red room cordoned off.
It doesn’t have to be there to be there.
At the market’s end
bruised tomatoes, nectarines
so soft they’re left for free.