By Grace Jordan
Whatever this place is that I return to sometimes
The flat cracked clay bed baking in the sun place
Whatever this place is that I wake in on unexpected mornings
The walled in, lean to forced hole walking in circles place
Whatever this place is that grips me with its gnarled joints and rotting tongue
The hold my breath under dirt in my nails, scratched in my skin place
Whatever this place is screen on screens in bugs, ants crawling in cracks
The baseball field, library, snack stand, dance class, place
Whatever this place is happened in the car, on the bed and down the drain
The mall parking lot, June street, 2nd floor brownstone, Extended stay, barricades, place
Whatever this place is, I’d like to invite you in.
Grace Jordan is an essayist, and playwright who lives in Hell’s Kitchen. Grace’s play Moses was a two-time semi-finalist at the Eugene O’Neill National Playwrights Conference.