I walk down a different street every day
see the same bag of potatoes
propped up on the windowsill
shifting as someone prepares dinner

Blossomed trees in every courtyard stretch to 20th Avenue
screen doors open one woman in a bandana towel dries a plate

stares into the distance of the living room

On the sidewalk
I stand underneath
a Japanese Maple Tree
for the first time
since childhood indoors

on my comforter
I moisturize
while the serum
of afternoon light
streams in
socks pulled halfway
up my calves
hair bird nested
eating stuffed grape leaves
out of the can
waving to the woman
across the street
wondering if she sees me
in my peach-colored bra

Laura Salvatore is a poet living in Queens, New York. She received her MFA at The City College of New York. In 2022, Laura was a fellow for the Zip Code Memory Project, which sought to find community-based ways to memorialize the devastating losses resulting from the Coronavirus. She participated in the micro-residency Poets Afloat in April 2022 and was a work study scholar for the Poetry By the Sea conference in May 2023. Her poetry can be found in Movable Type, Pith Journal, Angel City Review, and The Marbled Sigh, amongst others.