Emily Kirchner

Bridgeport knows spirited sermons,
choir notes raised as high as her hands,
And is just as familiar
with chakras.
Her third eye sees 20/20.

Lines of poetry are tattooed on her tongue.
A crack in her sidewalk emits an underground song.
She steps over the theory of
“pick yourself up by your bootstraps”
because that shoe never fit.

Lovers tried to gentrify her spirit.
Mayors slipped through her layers,
pickpocketed culture and cash.

She lives in a house of tarot cards
the Big Bad Wolf tries to blow down,
but then he looks at it
and sees his own future.

She knows that graffiti art isn’t vandalism;
It’s surprise redecoration.
A new coat of spray paint
keeps her warm in winter.
She forges broken glass into gemstones.

Her buildings are not abandoned.
They are the doorways that birth her children.
Some don’t come back.
Some betray her.
Some stay,
build onto her house
new stories to tell.

She feeds family
with ackee and saltfish, gumbo, enchiladas.
She remembers the days
before the industrial boom
or P.T. Barnum,
Back to when she was a sanctuary
for those who escaped slavery,
and she welcomed them at the harbor.

The window is broken,
but the view is not.
It gleams as bright as the torch she carries,
wide as the port carrying us to land,
open as her arms
letting you in
to brew in her tea
and gestate in her waves
every time.