I am watching from the window.
A lady falls,
lost in the inertia of the July night,
heavy with the weight of summer.
She stumbles in the mossy night.
Cabs cut through the air
like sharks through water.
Suits with boys in them glide past unaware
and the windows across the way blink off.
Whispers in the trees and
planes blinking beacons in the sky.
I think of you and how you fed me oranges
and told me straight,
your mouth a half-moon,
that they were tangerines.
Marie Kilroy has recently been published in the Red Wolf Journal, Lummox Press, and East Coast Literary Review. She graduated from the University of Mary Washington with a B.A. in English. She lives in New York City.