Illustration by Watson Frank
My roommate cooks ground beef in a pan
and suddenly I am homesick
for the first time since the dogwoods
in April when Sara said springtime
happens here in slow motion.
On La Salle someone leaves behind
a silhouette of perfume for me to encounter
in the elevator and I thereby come to know
what it is to rest in the crook of their arm. I recall
how on Albemarle the afternoon laundry scent of strangers
collects in invisible clouds in the street, betraying
what it is to sleep in that stranger’s bed at night.
I purchase a yellowing book from the Strand
whose insides smell like soy sauce
having absorbed the byproducts of cooking, of human living
into its fibers, into its spine, and I recall
how my notebook pages stick together in summer,
grow plump and damp with humidity
so that ink runs like street lights in the rain,
and too-firm pencils might tear the crumbling paper.
Here, a wandering whiff of cigarette.
Now, an applause of June thunder.
Somewhere, a G chord in a window.
Somewhere, a toilet flush at midnight.
Giselle Silla (she/her) is a sophomore at Barnard College majoring in Urban Studies and minoring in German.