Poem by Crystal Rivera

soundbites while waiting

I am waiting for fresh
green, chickpeas
to be delivered straight
to my door. And as I wait,
like all mornings,
I log onto IG and there it is–
there she is     the sound of Bisan’s voice
                breaking.

And this time she doesn’t say what day it is, or that
she is still alive, but somewhere in the breaking
you hear ...and the only way they can get food

is to wait for food. And they–
fathers and sons–
have slept on the streets for weeks
                waiting. And I hear her say,
At 4AM, someflours, and I swear I thought I heard her say
                sunflowers,
you heard it, too, right? I place      my ear
closer to her voice, closer to my phone, and
                desperately
I am searching for
                these loudly-yellow 4AM blooms
but instead, chills running bone-deep, she is saying
some flours,      blood mixed      with some flour
                and my doorbell rings.

At 4AM in NYC,
you can find me on the floor
                waiting
for my small hands to shell a pound of chickpeas.
You wouldn’t know this until you
                break apart the green, but
it smells of sunflowers
                                                                freshly cut,
and you can hear sounds from Apt 19 of
                someone
                                ​quietly      breaking.

This poem first appeared in Wild Greens.
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Click to hear the poet read the poem.

Crystal Rivera (they/she), is a queer poet and recipe developer from NYC. Born a Russian-Puerto Rican Jew in Queens, NY, many dishes merge cuisines into poems. You can follow them on Instagram @cookonyournerve.