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