Poem 331 ± April 30, 2016

Shakira Croce
Our Song

Empty cars held us
in the pale grey turning
to square lights of the city.
The ambulance driver steps out to smoke,
tapping ashes on Park Avenue.
It came from Desert Storm,
and you keep it still stamped,
colors faded and oblivious
lying next to a half-empty pill box.
You choose the music tonight.
It’s as simple as offering protection
from a line on the rise
in another CDC report failing to remind us
it’s no longer a death sentence.
Sometimes we can forget it all:
put our song on repeat and dance
swinging arms around each other,
hearts beating wildly.
There’s a greater communication
in that movement of the hip,
straighter than a needle
and wider than a lover’s exhale
to reach the need.


Shakira CroceShakira Croce is a writer in Queens, New York. A Georgia native, she studied writing at Sarah Lawrence College and completed a Masters at Pace University. Shakira’s poetry translations have appeared in Babel magazine, and recently her poetry has been featured in the New Ohio Review, PoetsArtists, Tansactions, Ducts.org, and the Red River Review. Shakira currently works as Communications & Public Relations Manager for a not-for-profit health plan, Amida Care, which is New York’s largest special needs health plan for people living with chronic conditions such as HIV/AIDS.

This poem is not previously published.