Turnstile Jumping

the card machine is broken again.

on the platform, a boy

jumps the turnstile behind me.

i notice him, walking toward the tracks

with no look back.

some days the turnstiles swing forward,

and i don’t look back.

some days by the emergency exit a hand on a holster.

those days i say a little prayer.

last winter i couldn’t afford the subway,

vaulted over the turning metal bars—another hurdle, to live

meaning being fed meaning no metaphysical questions

just getting somewhere.

last winter they could have made a detailed case

for my deportation.

let me be honest:

my vision has gone blurry from drinking, watching cars

cutting overhead and starting my own subaru

trying to find my way home.

for years, i closed my palms

over rings in shops. store lights searching,

my hands grasping empty,

my closed pockets.

a small step over the sensor.

every day, another jump over.

they hang men for marijuana back home.

for years, i ended my day

blowing smoke out the window.

the case against me so loud it straightens

into a hum. for this, for this.

always another hoop to jump through.

last night, the woman i love cried in the shower—

they could drive you out too.

the hot water slipping

down her neck.

can i name my danger?

the top of   her head

the buried smell of   her sweat,

the corner of   her jawline

the hanger of her voice

the water wrapping around our bodies.

i want to tell the lawyers,

i’ve jumped through every hoop.

i’ve made my longing a hoop.

don’t you see—i would jump through my own arms

if it meant i could stay?

can i let myself want?

more than tomorrow, more than someone

to push open the emergency exit—

don’t leave me, she cries.

i mean to say, i stopped jumping. i promise.

from the far end of the shower, i say,

can i stay here?

stay, she says as i pull the plastic curtain back—

her stomach warm against my back,

the water now cold around us.

stay a little longer.