He Visits Your City Briefly

Maybe I can't find the beginning because we exist
perpetually in the story's end: the island splayed out
below us, a dark sinking where Central Park should be.
Where it will sprout again green come morning.
Light moves in the dark toward the dark. Tomorrow, a new
dark sinking where he should be. I'll keep every postcard—
Terracotta armies moving through me, Sydney erecting
its skyline daily in my veins, the thousand-year-old women
in a province he won't be able to name, their faces painted
serene, accepting. It's easier to blame geography than to forgive
myself, so tonight I will take them all into me, every street
that goes on being a street in the wake of his leaving.
Hello, ghost town of my hand without his.

Victoria Lynne McCoy holds an MFA in poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK, Union Station Magazine, Used Furniture Review, and Mudfish, among others. She has served as the Frost Place Work Fellow and is a member of the louderARTS Project. Victoria lives in Brooklyn and works for Four Way Books. (

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761