Poetry & Fiction

Brooklyn Poetry: caro

Single Occupants

Niña stands with her fist lightly balled on her chest,
the motion an old woman makes
while soothing a pang in her heart,
and says aloud
to me,
to God,
to all of Brooklyn:
Qué pena, qué pena.
I know enough Spanish
to understand,
but not enough to translate
her evening prayers as they float
through the floor toward Heaven,
so I imagine she is praying
for me,
and for her,
and for every other single occupant,

and I wonder if she knows
I can hear her,
and I hope she knows
I am listening.


show me

I ask you to take me to the roof
because seeing is believing
and your apartment only has two windows –
no place for watching fireworks,
or mulling over the effects of gravity
on objects living or otherwise.
You point to the sky with your cigarette,
claiming: Look! There are stars over Brooklyn.
But all I see are the bombs
going off above Midtown,
so I beg you show me,
except the request is more prove it
sounding like a desperate push.

You too have seen explosions,
know the long for a finale,
and with your last drag, promise:
When the smoke clears.



caro is a musician, writer, and freelance audio tech living in Brooklyn. Her poetry has appeared in Chronogram, right hand pointing, and Red Eft Review. She can be found around the internet @caroblahblah and thisiscaro.com.

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