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Chanice Hughes-Greenberg

Chanice Hughes-Greenberg is a poet, Capricorn, & playlist enthusiast hailing from upstate New York by way of Long Island. Her work has appeared in Studio Magazine, No, Dear Magazine, The Recluse, The Believer Magazine online & other publications. She has participated in readings with The Poetry Project, Cave Canem, Brooklyn Museum, Poets & Writers, Montez Press Radio, & The Freya Project. Chanice received a BFA in Writing from Pratt Institute, was the recipient of a 2019 Brooklyn Poets Fellowship, & was a Best of the Net nominee for 2020. Find her online: chanicehughesgreenberg.com.

July 1, 2020


I’m drinking a wine that tastes like golden hour,

the moment haze gets backlit

shadows stretching long across hot pavement,

damp benches, the stairs of my stoop

We can’t trust our bodies but we keep trying

keep coming up for air

skin hunger: a longing traced back years

I’m tired of not getting what I want

my horoscope suggests shedding skin


The full moon & a lunar eclipse

at the beach enclosed in blue-green waves

I’ll fight anyone who can’t see stars in my city’s night

Bootsy Collins singing I rather be with you-oo, ya

The mezcal on the nightstand a one-time lover I keep for myself

& these months are becoming longer because

that’s what this season does



Getaway


A woman boards a train heading north; she faces south

some say strange but I like to watch the city

fall away    brick by building by bridge

a breathless transition into

bright afternoon    water held close to shore

only a memory of ice but the promise of frost


                                   Next stop


If the train leaves at a quarter past the hour

will she make the sunset—

not if the overcast collects it first

not if she leaves her apartment high in the early afternoon

orders the wrong bread at the bakery    eats it anyway


                                 Watch for the signs

                                 that lead in the right direction


Cabin fever causes delusion—voices

coming from the statues facing each other

causes the small town to remind her

of sitting in cars in other bare branch seasons

causes her to face backward on a train carrying forward


                                 They'll show you the way

                                  into what you have been seeking


If there is a bed we call it a home

if there is a window overlooking a courtyard

we call it a museum

if the train stops then starts    climbs through a tunnel

we call it a weekend


                                Before walking through the dark I tuck

                                a prayer under my tongue

                                for later


Suspend the canvas from the rafters

let the light dance in the air before it

let the light lay in the grass before it has to leave

let the pink be the start of a sunset the train

speeds back to greet

let the mountains kiss the woman goodbye

the prayer entering a new mouth


                                  so come, take me by the hand



Last Summer (A Duplex)


One minute away from 7:07, from the rain coming back

at night the fireworks shower neon in the park, you miles away


The fireworks shower you neon in the park, night miles away

clouds caught on fire, dragged into the East River


Dragged into the clouds, the East River caught on fire

I come back to the flower bush across the street


Across the street the flower bush coming back

delight in the slow takeover of the golden hour


The golden hour takes over, a slow delight

how nature moves toward the thing keeping it warm


Towards warmth we move, this is our nature

inside, something is alive, willing to grow


& willing something, we are alive inside

the rain coming back in a minute past 7:07

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