A young man checks the NASDAQ on the Uptown 6
while he listens to Joe Rogan. He pauses.
AirPods in already, yes. “Buy it, Dave. Now. Don’t hesitate
and do as I say.” His chinos are too tight, and
he has avocado lingering in the corner of his mouth
from company brunch, celebrating a new acquisition.
He stinks of spilt mimosas and blood,
namely, the blood of the soon-to-be evicted.
There’s never been a better time for real estate.
A newly homeless woman of forty —
black sweater, black mask on her forehead, pink lips, gold eyelids—
is left by her lover on the Uptown 6.
She rips his blanket out of her suitcase and throws it, but it gets caught in the train doors. Feathers drift in the car’s stale air and
land on her shoulders. She talks to the feathers.
Some are God and the Devil. Others, her sister and
her first-grade teacher. “Ma’am, can you put your mask back on?”
She doesn’t. In less than a month, she too drifts.
A homage to “The North” from Charles Reznikoff’s Testimony.
Siri Ranganath 