Luna Park
Fluorescent teeth form the entrance, greet us
and swallow. Since I've been in Melbourne,
I haven't had dreams where my teeth fall out
or someone socks me in the jaw. We're told to act
“less American.” I ask a eucalyptus tree for advice.
The sky is cotton-grey; we see the highway
from the apex of the Ferris wheel. Lisa takes photos
with her thumb on the lens. She rests her head
on my wool-cushioned shoulder. I throw
un-popped kernels to the asphalt, hope for a ruckus
of pigeons: birds that know nothing
but hunger. The sky is a lampshade that dims
above Melbourne. The sunlight departs,
tangles with the curtains in a New York bedroom,
just as someone dear wakes to shoulder the day.
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Nicole Steinberg is the Co-Editor of LIT and the Web Editor of BOMB magazine. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Gulf Coast, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, RealPoetik, Barrelhouse, and elsewhere. She curates and hosts EARSHOT, a reading series for emerging writers in Brooklyn, New York.