and you point to buildings and streets

that bear the scars around your own:

the elementary school that taught you

difference and its consequences; the law 

firm where twenty-five years later your daily

prayer and hijab reinforced the lesson.
 
There, the bus stop where you last saw
 
your brother, out of his mind and out of your

reach, his mouth an open sore.

We’ve talked many times before about 

what it means to be noticed, to be

threatening and invisible at the same time.
 
In this way, we are sisters. We stay close,
 
two brown women walking together.

This city’s always been very segregated

and it’s true that when you walk north

the prices rise and the faces pale.

We touch the Scotch broom and lilacs 

erupted in spring, notice the renegade ferns 

growing upon the stumps of old docks.
 
All along the water’s edge, we note the glorious blue

made bluer by the hulls of gleaming white boats;

upon a hillside suffuse in green, amid artifacts of rust,

people fly kites, edging out over the skyline.

On your left! Bikers zoom past us, their spandex, 

the shine of their helmets, rejoicing. 

It’s true that people here are different 

when exposed to the sun; they crowd 

the sidewalks with strollers and wagging dogs. 

Sunglasses, then. Smiles and hellos.

We pass condo after condo, clustered houseboats, 

marinas of artisan sailboats, luxury yachts.

Who are these people, we ask, looking in.

All day you’ve spoken the landscape of your life

as we walk among places that no longer exist —

neighborhoods reconceptualized and fenced off.

This city does not want me.

What do we do when the ground we claim

as home changes beneath our feet?

Landscape, layered. You can look back, 

remember the stories beneath all this shine.

We part ways upon a freshly paved greenspace.

In the shadow of History and Industry, people 

play bocce on gravel among orange café seating.

Beneath an awning along the water, 

a man carves a canoe from salvaged cedar.
From landscape / heartbreak