This is a poem for the first friends,
the failed potential roommates, the craft night talkers:
Our friendship lasted a New York minute,
until the night ended
or I broke up with you
or you moved to another state,
but believe me,
a minute is a lifetime,
in a life with many lifetimes.
I met the girl with the ear gauges on lesbian craigslist
while fumbling through the choreography of finding a New York City apartment:
you’re queer,
you’re looking for housing,
this might work.
We did not become roommates,
even though I combed listings into a spreadsheet
and surveyed the Brooklyn living room—
no windows—
She was trying to leave.
It’s fine, she said. I’ll stay with a friend for now,
that friend who happened to be a turbulent ex-boyfriend.
But we did become friends.
Before I knew any lesbians
I knew the girl with the ear gauges
so I ate my first halal with her in the rain
under the lip of a Midtown office building
the day before I began a new and terrible office job.
We rode the train-ferry-bus to the beach
that first summer of mine
where she lit a joint
and I floated in relief
on the stretch of sand
where my chest first met the sky.
The wobbly scaffolding of our friendship buckled
under the weight of housing horrors that crushed her,
of couch surfing stolen money landlord fuckery—
stories I did not know how to hold
as I rebuilt my life
inside the railroad apartment
with the queers from regular craigslist.
By the eruption of spring,
she disappeared down the stairs toward the 2 train
and returned to the corners of the internet
that first tethered us.
She has a new tattoo and maybe a new lover and
that is all I know now.
M. Rosenberg is a Jewish butch dyke writer and cartoonist living in Brooklyn.
She thinks about her fleeting queer friendships as intimate encounters that help us survive.
They like to write and make comics about everyday encounters with strangers and neighbors, queer survival, and what makes a “good life” in NYC.
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