QUEENSBOUND 2018

QUEENSBOUND is a poetry project by, for, and about Queens. QUEENSBOUND 2018 is our first edition includes 16 emerging and esteemed poets from across the borough who share poems about their Queens neighborhoods. 2018 contributors include: Rosebud Ben-Oni, Malcolm Chang, Catherine Fletcher, Sherese Francis, Jared Harél, Nicole Haroutunian, Abeer Hoque, Safia Jama, Paolo Javier, Joseph O. Legaspi, Ananda Lima, Maria Lisella, Vikas K. Menon, Belal Mobarak, Meera Nair, Maria Terrone, and curator and host KC Trommer. In 2018, poets shared their original work on the 7 train, beginning at Vernon Blvd Jackson Av stop, before stepping off at Mets-Willets Point and heading over to The Queens Museum for a reception. The event concluded with a song which included lines from every poem in the launch from Adam DeGraff and Tyler Burba. To see the map, hear the poems, and learn more about our contributors and about future train readings, go to queensbound.com. 

Episode Transcript

(00:01):
This is QUEENSBOUND.
Hi, everyone. This is KC Trommer, founderof QUEENSBOUND, a poetry project by,
for, and about Queens.
I'm thrilled to share with you our 2024edition in which we bring in more voices
of Queens writers to the project andinclude poems in languages other than
English, along with translations thatare read by the author. In this edition,
you'll find 15 poemsfrom our contributors,
as well as four poems-one inJapanese, Nepali, Spanish,
and Ukrainian-accompanied by theirEnglish translations.With this edition,
QUEENSBOUND has expanded its artistichorizons to include 60 contributors in
total,
drawing from Queens' many communities toinclude poems from every corner of the
borough.
From channeling Hip Hop beats in Jamaicato birding in Forest Park to losing
love on a corner of Broadway in Astoria,
each poem in the latest release isa unique narrative that adds to the
collective story of our multifacetedborough.If you're curious about which
station stops correspond withthe poems, go queensbound.com,
and you'll find the poems markedin green on our Queens subway map.
Have a listen, and I hopeyou enjoy QUEENSBOUND 2024.

(00:51):
Is a Queens Bound seven local train.
The next stop is VernonBoulevard, Jackson Avenue.
Matarose
Tags
G-Dragon
On
the
7
Matarose
never
comes
home
She's
hungry
like
a
wolf
She's
rosa
de
mota
in
lacroix
all
the
girls
hail
on
queens
boulevard
All
the
views
she's
killed
in
the
name
of
iman&
yasmin
le
bon
Mata's
quite
meta
Mata
means
kill
Rose
a
curve
from
the
real
meat
of
it
all
She's
part
my
little
pony
into
bronies
she
has
loved
&
loved
notby
astro-pony
compatibility
chart
She's
the
queerest
part
of
me
What's
left
after
the
clubs
close&
has
yet
to
go
home
she
never
goes
when
she
writes
I
always
write
in
bed
just
woofed
down
a
3
musketeers
mata's
on
a
mission
which
is
to
say
I'm
my
most
queer
my
most
mata-
rose
when
she
&
I
don't
need
all
the
girls
in
the
yard
don't
need
all
the
girls
in
the
yard
by
which
I
mean
the
one
who's
not
the
one
whose
blocked
texts
&
torn
up
wish
you
wells
flicker
still
That
riddle
get
you
killed
kind
of
a
woman
for
whom
matarose
almost
cut
off
a
foot
Went
to
the
end
of
twobuckghosting
rails
My
man
is
a
little
afraid
of
mata
he
accepts
her
tho
Lets
her
come
&
go
because
I
stay
I
am
always
with
him
because
mata
just
wants
every
7
train
to
dissolve
into
g-dragonsound
wants
you
to
howl
boom
mata
mata
boom
mata
mata
wow
g-mata
dragonrose
The
most
pony
of
them
all
g-mata7
dragontrainrose
Don't
wait
up
Never
last
stop
never
comes
boom
mata
mata
boom
mata
mata
home.

(02:57):
The next stop is Woodside 61st Street.

(04:35):
Their spine by Joseph O. LegaspiBless them on their predawn commute,
sweat-stained caps, hands in rare repose.
The hardest working people ofNew York City. Blue collar,
immigrants fortified with make-ends-meetperseverance. Heads bobbing,
eyes inward.
In their shallow dreaming echoes ofmetal wheels screeching against steel
tracks. Shepherd them to their desolatedestinations: office buildings,
assembly lines, stalls and depots.Rise, bread of sustenance! Brew,
reviving coffee! Soon, theworkers will strike sparks,
feed the kiln of infrastructures. Fornow, lodged in plastic seats, they rest.
Before the hours stretch them intorubber, the years pound them into sand.
Alleviate their chronic aches.The marginalized with oily faces,
the undocumented cloaked in weariness.
Praise the woman with my mother's facelined with wretchedness and dignity.
Sanctify those who deliver the day,
mounting the sun up to the sky withinvisible strength, heavy on the pull.
Bless their bent knees, heartsmurmuring hope, and their spine.
This is a Manhattan bound M local train.
The next stop is JacksonHeights. Roosevelt Avenue.
In these Streets by Meera Nair.

(04:57):
Just this morning the womanwith her head tipped back.
Her scarf slipped off thebrimming milk bowl of her face,
the Urdu words thatescaped her laughter, lush,
gilded by courts and kings. My sister,
I wanted to say I know you.

(05:17):
I too have called mother andwaited at the end of 7,000 miles
to hear her breathing and look,
there's the old man with henna beard,
white kta hoisted on his bony shoulders.
Sally forth to the noonprayers at the corner mosque.
The blessed weight of his palm lieson my head still from the years when I

(05:41):
paused,
breathless in some muddyplayground to Bo Salam Uncle g
Salam,
the young wife Red Bengaltrembling on her wrists,
thumbing the bright packets atPatel. Brothers like rosary beads,
searches for the deep red godamasala, the Mumbai hot curry.

(06:02):
My patient grandmother made roastingcloves and sesame her kitchen
a warm continent IS saninto the long winters,
the shots at night.
The neighbor in three sea whowants me sent back to wherever.
Yes, yes, there is all that, but this too.

(06:22):
Just last week a man hurryingahead of me, the back of his head,
a known beloved shape wearingthat familiar blue shirt.
I forgot he was gone these 20years and rushed up the sidewalk.
My heart shouting Father,
father wild for an instant with joy.

(06:46):
This is a Flushing MainStreet bound 7 local train.
The next stop is 74th Street Broadway..

(08:26):
When
They
Come
for
Us
on
the
7
Train
By
Ananda
Lima
Past
the
underground
tracks,
the
railroad
rises
our
eyes
adjust
to
the
sun
over
Jackson
Heights
at
the
platform,
the
doors
slide
open
and
the
winter
comes
in
with
the
men
in
their
dark
uniforms
silence
except
for
the
"please
stand
clear
of
the
closing
doors,"
the
weight
of
their
boots
sways
the
car
and
I
raise
my
hand
towards
the
pole,
but
one
of
the
men
grabs
my
wrist
and
I
feel
the
cold
of
his
black
gloves
against
the
grooves
of
my
tendons,
the
cold
crosses
my
skin,
the
cold
mixes
with
my
blood,
the
cold
travels
in
my
veins,
to
my
fingertips
to
my
elbow
and
my
other
hand
lets
go
of
my
son
before
the
cold
reaches
him
tooI
say
"I'm
an
American
citizen"
the
soft
tissue
in
my
mouth
cracks
with
frost
I
say
it
louder
"I'm
an
American
Citizen"
and
the
frozen
edges
of
the
words
scratch
as
they
move
through
my
throat
I
shout
"I'm
an
American
citizen"
and
reflected
on
the
man's
visor,
I
see
my
faceI
think
of
my
son
if
they
take
me
I
think
of
my
son
if
they
don't
as
he
watches
me
whisper
"I'm
an
American
citizen"
while
the
others
are
takenby
the
men
of
ice.
This is a Forest Hills71st Avenue bound R train.
The next stop is 63rd Drive Rego Park.

(08:48):
All
Possible
Fates
By
Jared
Harél
The
universe
is
expanding,
but
my
apartment
is
not.
This
is
balance
I
tell
myself,
tripping
over
trikes,
toy
blocks,
the
way
a
housecat
can
convince
itself
a
mattress
is
wilderness,
its
very
own
Savannah,
or
how
no
one
in
the
neighborhood
can
afford
the
neighborhood,
though
we
ghost
past
townhouses,
pretending
they
are
ours.In
the
end,
isn't
it
in
our
nature
to
disperse?
To
pull
away?
When
my
daughter
begs
to
play
hide-and-seek,
I
try
my
best
not
to
find
her
immediately,
though
there
are
only
so
many
places
to
hide.
Then
one
day,
sick
of
ducking
behind
sofa
cushions,
or
under
the
desk,
she
slips
into
the
bathroom,
snaps
down
the
lock.Three
years
old
and
well
out
of
reach.
Before
I
knew
I
too
could
disappear,
I
would
leap
off
balconies,
bunk
beds
and
swings,
bike
to
the
brink
of
each
dead-end
street.
I
write
this
beside
a
man
weeping
into
the
Arts
&
Leisure
section
of
the
Times.
His
lips
are
quivering,
face
wet,
yet
what
can
I
do
but
look
away?
I
look
away,
but
he's
in
this
now,
fixed
inside,
like
how
my
daughter
was
a
door
I
threatened
and
pleaded
with,
until
she
felt
like
having
pancakes,
and
turned
the
knob.
I
admit
all
fault,
to
all
possible
fates.
Are
we
bound
to
be
an
airport
where
everyone
leaves?

(10:18):
This is a Flushing MainStreet bound 7 local train.
The next stop is 46th Street.
7
to
46th
Street/Bliss
By
KC
Trommer
When
the
train
picks
up
speed,
it
sounds
like
a
woman
screaming,
one
woman
all
over
the
city,
releasing
her
heat
in
a
high,
steady
wail,
smearing
her
red
mouth
along
the
tunnel
walls.
I
make
and
unmake
myself.
When
the
doors
open,
anyone
can
come
in,
anyone
does.
I
circle
back
downtown,
leave
the
book
open
on
my
lap,
look
over
the
map
that
lays
out
the
routes.
The
city
is
a
muscle;
we
feed
it.
The
woman
across
from
me
shrivels
up
her
face,
sticks
a
finger
in
each
ear
to
kill
the
sound
of
the
train
rounding
into
Queensboro
Plaza.
My
hands
are
warm
on
my
lap:
they
are
for
making
and
unmaking.
I
thumb
the
seam
of
the
sketchbook
open
while
the
city
sits
and
waits,
indifferent
and
unblinking
like
all
gods.
My
mouth
is
a
siren,
my
body
mine
to
make.
Wherever
I
go,
I
am
this
woman.
Whoever
needs
erasing,
I
erase.

(11:35):
This is a Jamaica 179thStreet bound F Express train.
The next stop is JacksonHeights Roosevelt Avenue.
Kalpana
Chawla
Way
By
Malcolm
Chang
As
a
child
Kalpana
Chawla
would
contemplate
the
night
sky
from
the
open
courtyard
of
her
house
in
India
and
dream
I
was
not
born
for
one
corner
of
the
earth,
she
said
The
whole
universe
is
my
native
place.
When
the
space
shuttle
Columbia
exploded
upon
reentry,
she
perished
among
the
stars
and
surrendered
her
soul
to
the
cosmos.
In
accordance
with
her
wishes
her
ashes
were
scattered
over
the
Himalayas
and
the
national
parks
of
Utah
befitting
an
astronaut
who
straddled
two
continents
and
embraced
the
vastness
of
space.
And
while
her
corporeal
body
was
returned
to
Mother
Earth
who
birthed
her,
the
stardust
of
her
spirit
dispersed
like
sparks
from
the
eruptions
of
ancient
volcanoes
unshackled
from
the
bonds
of
gravity.
Some
were
carried
by
solar
windson
the
trails
of
comets
to
fly
to
the
great
unknown.And
some
returned
to
those
left
behindto
settle
mote
by
moteon
young
girls
in
India,on
seekers
the
world
over
And
here
in
Jackson
Heights
onto
a
small
section
of
74th
Street
that
bears
her
name
A
reminder
that
her
dreamsare
a
gift
that
belongs
to
us
all.

(13:09):
The next stop is 33rd Street.

(14:31):
Industrial Design & Sunset By Safia JamaThis taxi smells like the tiny box of
empanadas warming my lapEastward is summer sky,
a row of trees before a row oftombstones I recall how as a kid,
I loved the black hearse bestOnce, after I stole my first candy,
I saw one make a wide turn failing tonotice the funeral home I yearned to ride
in that glamour reserved for the dead somuch better than the fake wooden wagons
that smelled of dogs and dogs' cages.
Now a silver ribbon of river runs abarely visible silk thread-Chrysler drips
demure jewels as night declines Istill yearn for the black bustle,
promise of whalebone, silk bows,
and men in tailored suitswaiting to kiss my hand.
This is a Ditmars Boulevardbound and express train.
The next stop is AstoriaDitmars Boulevard.
Where

(14:55):
the
N
Train
Stops
By
Belal
Mobarak
Home
is
where
I
told
the
landlord,
"I
won't
live
with
my
parents;
I'm
only
here
to
translate"
My
tongue
mispronounces
my
name.
The
cool
kids
ask,
"Yo,
where
the
fuck
you
from?"
Queens.
Nah
son,
I
meant
what
country
you
from?
"Egypt"
Oh,
oh
you
African?
You
just
like
us!"
Home
is
5G,
1A,
3C,
Eviction
Notice,
Third
Floor,
Apt
2
Where
a
social
worker
asked,
"How
do
you
afford
that
phone
then?"
My
father
left
us
Home
is
Seeing
the
same
cool
kids
sit
in
the
back
of
the
bus
so
I
loosened
my
belt
and
joined
Where
I
prayed
no
cops
stood
by
the
turnstile
today
Home
is
Free
refills
until
we
get
thrown
out
Watching
Fat
Joe
licking
the
sole
of
his
sneakers
on
MTV
The
2000's
Tooth-brushing
my
fresh
Uptowns
Wearing
white
T-shirts
the
size
of
abayas
but
never
wearing
abayas
Where
the
N
Train
stops
Thinking
Nas
is
Egyptian
because
I
loved
his
music
WhereMy
grandmother
visits
because
the
radiator
keeps
her
warm
in
winter
Egypt
is
not
what
National
Geographic
says
And
my
mother
tells
me,
"Home
is
where
my
children
are.".

(16:38):
The next stop is 90thStreet Elmhurst Avenue.

(18:19):
Here I Love You New York By AbeerY. Hoque Here I love you, New York.
In the neon-striped night,people rise and roar.
The sirens and singers vie with theirululations. A hundred times I listen.
Engines, music, language, breath.
A thousand times I hear anew.Thepigeons swoop and scatter.
Sneakers dangle from electric lines.Once a cloud. Always the clouds.
Oh the louche glitter ofyour nightclubs. Beckoning.
Sometimes I walk home at thewitching hour in the rain.
A statue appears in the fog.Disappears.This is a fire escape. Here I love you.
Here I love you and theskyline is your measure.
Sharp and steel and loveand cinder. Other times,
my kisses go through miles of tunnels,dank subway cars speeding, screeching,
stopping. Sweetness,
I whisper into the silk press of grassthis little bit of earth the city hasn't
paved over.
I am haunted by how little I see of thesky carved up and camouflaged by the
machinations of men. Bitter thepill that keeps you in Wonderland.
But then the moon revealsitself above your towers.
Lampposts throw down their orbs oflight each a bridge from you to yours.
I love you from the window of a stopmotion taxi the taste of the city on the
tip of my tongue.
This is a Flushing MainStreet bound 7 local train.
The next stop is 40th Street.
A

(18:42):
True
Account
of
Talking
to
the
7
Line
in
Sunnyside
By
Paolo
Javier
Right
to
Liquor
Signpast
Super
Laundromat
&
European
Mediterranean
Foodswhich
is
closed.
FOR
RENT.
Inquiries
five
one
six
two
four
eight
oh
eight
oh
there
is
Golden
Wok,
then
Top
Quality
Cleaners
What
are
you
doing?
Oh.
This.
Bodega.
Closed.
Awww.
It's
now
STORE
FOR
RENT
Inquiries
Call
We
can't
go
to
it
again?
No
more
Awww!
Used
to
be
Korean-owned
&
now
it's
just
European
Meat
Market
on
the
corner
of
forty
second
Why
it's
getting
closed?
Because
it's
getting
closed.
Because
richer
people
have
been
moving
here
&
raising
rent
What
does
that
mean?
It's
called
gentrification
Awww....They
make
it
hard
for
us
to
continue
to
live
in
this
neighborhood
Well
what
is
gentremecation?
When
people
who
make
a
greater
amount
of
money
move
into
your
neighborhood
&
raise
rent
they
threaten
to
push
out
families
who
look
just
like
us
That's
so
sad!
Who
will
eat
our
food?
It's
so
tasty!
2
Keep
walking
west
till
you
hit
forty
first
street
&
see
PS
150
which,
thankfully,
we'll
avoid
this
fall
Why
we
will
avoid
it?Because
the
principal
is
terrible
&
when
principals
are
horribleteachers
leave&
we
are
always
going
to
support
TeachersWhy
Baba?
Because
Teachers
are
the
ones
who
keep
our
citiesintactWhat
is
intact?Holding
fast.
Teachers
keep
kids
out
of
trouble,
they
guide
you
to
be
a
better
person
actually
yr
first
teachers
are
always
.
going
to
be
Mama
&
Baba
the
othersBuddha
Ah
Mah
Ah
Gung
Coco
&
Coca
I
love
Coca!
Baba
we
didn't
go
to
temple
for
a
long
long
time!
I
know.
We
will
next
weekend.
After
we
attend
Tita
Emmy's
panel
at
PS1
MoMA,
ok?
Little
steps
big
steps
tiny
steps
steps
Why
oh
why
the
um
principal
is
terrible?
Ah
because
the
principal
doesn't
care
about
her
teachers
she
wants
always
to
blame
her
teachers
for
every
problem
at
her
school
precisely
what
most
bad
principals
do3
Baba
how
many
how
many
days
is
Earth
going
to
be
alive?
That
is
a
good
questionHow
Many
Days
Is
Earth
Going
to
Be
AliveI
can
tell
you
we've
arrived
on
Queens
Boulevard
&
the
forty
first
street
bus
stop
of
the
Q32
&
60Baba
Baba
the
only
thing
under
Earththat
would
be
alivevolcanoes?Ohh
THIS
placeclosed
too?And
no
firecracker
and
no
shootingUsed
to
be
a
spa
meanwhile
itong
Baruir's
Coffee
e
nahati
siya
Virage's
Mart
Convenience
Store
where
yr
Coca
Marvie
wd
hoard
phone
cards
to
call
Manila
&
Sunnyside
Florist
NY
For
All
Designs
&
Occasions⎼⎼hangaang
kelan
lang
kaya
para
sa
kanila?
Hetong
Coffee
Shop
sa
kanto
once
run
by
four
brothers
from
Puebla
now
a
bistro
called
SOLE
LUNA
Also
what,
Baba?
Sole
Luna,
mahal
ko.
Nasa
Lowery
station
na
tayo
para
kunin
yung
7
4Baba,
Baba!
Um
the
time
when
we
get
home
can
you
please
look
up
how
many
days
is
the
Earth
gonna
survive
Cge,
mahal
kobut
only
if
you
stepaway
from
there
first
&
say
HelloHello,
7
train!
HELLOOOOOOOOO....

(23:26):
This is a Flushing MainStreet bound 7 local train.
The next stop is 40th Street.
Hawthorne
Court
By
Maria
Terrone
The
day
unfurls
for
the
tourists
who
come
once
a
year
to
the
garden
enclosed
by
brick
buildings.
Some
exclaim
at
tiger
lilies
and
iris,
others
sit
on
stone
benches
to
facethe
improbable
sweep
of
sunlit
lawn
through
a
lens.
Fanned
open,
the
day
presents
a
scene
that's
nearly
pastoral,
serene
despite
the
muffled
hum
of
the
city.
Tonight
I'll
walk
here
alone.Two
white
cats
will
scurry
away
from
my
footfall,
and
the
moon
will
follow
them
into
the
ivy,
spilling
its
milk
into
their
fur.
I'll
inhale
the
scent
of
rosemary
pinched
between
my
fingers,
passing
through
corridors
of
gnarled
hawthorn
trees
that
leantowards
me
like
question
marks.
Dense,
too,
the
towering
maples,
impenetrable
as
my
dreams;
and
all
the
mourning
doves,
silent
now
within
the
larger
sheltering
silence,
their
wings
folded.

(24:46):
The next stop is 52nd Street.
Next Summer by Nicole HartounianIn the first trimester,
coffee roils my stomach, makingme distrust its new resident.
"Are you really mine?" I ask, rubbing mystill-flat belly. Since she's the boss,
I lay off,
though I'm taunted daily by the roastysmell wafting from Karu Café under the
train tracks. Months later,
sciatica such that scaling those terriblestairs to the 52nd Street Station is a
mountain climb, a moon landing,
I give in."How else am I supposedto cool down?" I ask the café's
proprietor."There's a pool inWindmuller Park," she says,
serving me a pineapple smoothieinstead of iced coffee.It's bright and
refreshing yet gives me such heartburnI leave work early. One hand on my back,
the other on the firejust beneath my ribs,
I find a suit and hobble to thepool: resplendent turquoise,
churning with children. As theysplash, droplets hit my face,
merciful and cool.Thegatekeeper, a park ranger, says,
"Kids only." I gesture towardmy womb. He shakes his head.
"Next summer," he says.Home, I drawthe shades against the August sun.
In the dim, decaffeinated still,the baby rouses, as she always does.
She kicks and spins, already swimming.

(26:05):
This is a Manhattan bound local train.
The stop is Astoria Boulevard.
Cornrows
By
Maria
Lisella
Cheryl's
cornrows
are
A
maze
of
braids
that
crisscross
her
round
head
that
topsher
dark,
Trinidadian
neck.
Her
mother
jelly-coatsher
coffee-colored
fingers
to
move
rapid
and
sure
through
nappy,
crinkled
hair.
She
pulls
one
rope
of
hair
over
the
other,
over
the
other,
over
the
other,
untilthe
braids
are
locked
down
tight
with
barrettes,
ribbons
and
bows.
Around
the
corner
at
Jean's
Beauty
Parlor
white
women
plop
into
wide
leather
chairs
as
metallic
chemicals
crimp
and
whip
their
soft
hair
into
prim
tootsie
roll
curls.
Across
the
street
Sylvia's
is
crammed
arm
to
shiny
bronze
arm
with
black
women
pressing
their
hair-make
it
straight,
straight,
straight,
shiny,
smooth
as
seals-take
the
nap
out.
Cheryl
and
I
watch
Angela
Davis,
who
never
lived
in
Queens,
the
land
of
smooth
and
straight,
cry
out
of
the
TV.
She
raises
her
fist
past
a
brazen
halo
of
naturally
kinky
hair-letting
her
'fro
fly
loud
and
free,
as
if
her
hair
said,
"I
will
not
hide,
I
am
trouble,
see
me
now."
Cheryl's
cornrows,
a
puzzle
of
braids
locked
down
tight,
tight,
tight.
I
touch
my
smooth
hair,
a
single
rope
down
my
spine
wishing
all
the
while
best
friends
could
look
more
alike.

(28:02):
This is a Court Square23rd Street express train.
The next stop is JacksonHeights Roosevelt Avenue.
Psalm
of
the
Garden
in
the
City
By
Catherine
Fletcher
Lightning
flashed
all
night,
cracking
the
storm-stained
sky.I
felt
the
city
sigh
as
its
fever
eased.
Now
rain
pools
in
the
rootwell
of
the
oakwhile
chatty
sparrows
thrust
their
beaks
between
my
flagstones
in
search
of
breakfast.
Before
you
don
the
mask
of
the
harried
commute
make
office
compromises
before
Con
Ed
unfurls
another
net
of
orange
mesh
and
blocks
the
sidewalk
dear
neighbor
come,
blur
yourself
in
green
leaves,
grasses,
and
woody
shrubs
dripping
with
summer.
The
earth
stirred;
at
dawn
your
stories
emerged
from
the
mulch
inside
my
railings.
Observe
stop
schlepping.
Another
bus
is
coming
in
a
minute
or
maybe
ten.
Life
happens
here
without
clocks
to
count
the
hours-only
sunabove
in
the
uncurated,
blue
expanse.
Breathe
in
the
notes
of
the
lullabies
clinging
to
the
branches
of
my
maple,
the
speaker
phone
laughs
lodgedin
the
bark
of
the
dogwood.
Perhaps
you
have
not
metthe
pink-petalled
faces
growing
by
the
church's
southside
door
or
the
tattooed
biker
with
his
busted
foot
sweltering
in
the
shade
the
teen
couple
with
limbs
entangled
or
the
mother
in
the
yellow
sari,
resting
her
baby
on
a
blanket.
No
matter.
Come
no
passport
is
required,
no
papers.
My
fence
has
a
gate;
enter-just
don't
move
the
benches!
Spill
your
secrets.
No
one
is
Other
here.The
expressions
I
understand
are
manifold:
your
Yos,
your
Miras,
your
Achasthe
pigeons'
coos
and
the
nocturnal
trilling
of
raccoons
scavenging.
Sing
them,
friends,
let
them
fill
the
cup
(Call
it
Jamshid's;
call
it
a
Holy
Grail.).
Every
word
is
a
parlor
trick.
Every
word
is
an
elixir.
With
varicolored
tongues
we
have
become
a
refuge.
Let
us
refuse
to
compose
elegies
for
this
bruised
world.
Instead,
commune.
Let
our
enlacing
days
reach
beyond
our
streets'
patched
asphalt.
We
are
the
garden.
Believe
our
hymns
can
defy7
train
service
changes
cyclones
of
breaking
news
breach
heavy
boardroom
doors
and
unveil
the
beatific
in
far-flung
hills
and
around
the
corner.
Dear
neighbor
comed
well
in
possibility.

(31:23):
This is a Flushing MainStreet bound 7 local train.
The next stop is 82ndStreet Jackson Heights.
Queens
Communion
By
Vikas
Menon
--for
M.A.
&
Terraza
The
streets
our
endless
altar,
here
on
Roosevelt
Avenue,
where
children
parade
by
on
their
little
thrones
&
the
bodies
around
us
hustle
the
American
asana-the
always-leaning-forward
pose-the
one
our
fathers
and
mothers
tried
to
master.
But
you
and
I,
we
stumble
instead,
stagger-stepping
through
the
streets
that
shaped
you
and
now
change
me,
where
camphor
rises
into
the
air
and
men
whisper
Social,
Social
as
we
walk
by.
Whiskey
wanderers,
we
make
our
way
as
best
we
can.
Before
we
know
it,
we
walk
by
the
building
where
your
father
was
murdered,
as
we
have
done
so
many
times
before-as
you
do
every
day-&
as
always
I
think
of
my
father's
death
&
as
always
we
say
nothing
&
keep
walking,
ash
on
our
tongues.
When
we
get
to
Terrazza's
rough-hewn
door,
I
laugh
and
say--a
Muslim
and
a
Hindu
walk
into
a
bar-as
we
step
beneath
a
stage
that
sways
many-tongued
with
raga,
cumbia
&
kundiman
&
the
Saints
look
down
at
us
as
Paola
pours
our
penance.
We
raise
our
shotglasses
to
toast
our
pradakshina,
our
hajj-Hyphenate
this
motherfuckers-
knowing
full
well
how
our
pilgrimage
will
end.
Under
the
streetlights
at
the
corner
of
Roosevelt
&
Gleane-
in
a
world
that
still
seeks
Kings
and
kills
its
Queens-
beneath
train
tracks
that
suture
earth
to
sky-
we
will
take
our
Jackson
Heights
prasadam,
our
Elmhurst
benediction,
eating
on
the
street,
hands
stained
in
prayer.

(33:16):
This is a Jamaica Center bound E train.
The next and last stop is Jamaica Center.

(36:58):
Liberty Ashes (Keep Rising) By ShereseFrancis I was raised on the edgeof the
city others said was too far out toventure I live beyond where Nick and Jay*
could picture beyond where Moses*could reach his mighty staff to change
displace Us like the Red Sea Thisbeyond I call Home when others call it
wasteland We like phoenixes,
raised ourselves out of valleys of ourown ash made treasures out of trash
before it was trendy put on our beaverskins and built dreams became engineers
of futures and spaces thatothers said didn't exist Here,
We keep rising We step outside andsigns remind of Liberty moving down the
avenue it intersects with Farmers Weare still growing a new now in concrete
fields the same where LL stood by the red,
black and green felt the Liberty rockfelt the rhythm rock from the floor to the
ceiling like Run DMCWe rising, surprising,
hypnotizing like Jazz'sreincarnationextensionrecording from Harlem,
Chicago,The South -- the holy sainthoodElla, Eva, Billie, Lena, Bassie, Waller,
Williams,
Parker We in the congregation of saintColtrane and his love supreme God bless
the child Browne found his groove inJamaica funk when he pressed his mouth on
the trumpet that groove inside soulthat groove gettin' into you We got the
cosmos wirlin' like the center of thegalaxy called Bebopafunkadiscolypsowith
its mix of Salt n Pepa and jerk andcurry shaking our thang and making mo'
Jamaica funk We like yeast in breakin'bread Here, We keep rising We,
the people of auto repairshops and junk yards We,
the home of Black spectrum the web ofblack spiders weaving theaters of poetry
spinning together Africa's children Weare poets rising though dreams may be
deferred Our tongues keep watering themwhen they dry up like raisins in the sun
We are concentratedsweetness We are crystallized grittiness We are graduates of
the school of Lorraine singing anthemsto lift every voice Our rejoicing rising
so the sky can hear We keep rising hereSpringing up wells excavating buried
wisdom and wishes washing off olddirt discovering maps of memory We are
journeys uprooted Still We keep risinglike trees healing from the root shock
Our bodies rock on the routesof new vessels old blood of new courses We scatter
through the wind of Our voicesand grow where We land Here,
We keep rising like churches on everycorner the holy spirit amplified in the
sounds of the chorus singing Wekeep rising We keep rising We, the
risen!

(50:19):
Thanks for listening. Tosee the map, hear the poems,
and learn more about our contributorsand about future trained readings,
go to queens bound.com.