print previewback RYAN TEITMAN
The Other City
In the other city,
I left my family.
All my neighbors pity
how I stare so calmly
out my window. Across
the river, the other
city sleeps like a lost
child. They’ll wait another
year or ten or hundred
to leave. There was a boat;
I took it. Now I’m dead
to them. I donned my coat
and now I have more food
than I’ve ever eaten.
My youngest brother stood
up to police, was beaten.
I’d read the paper for
the other city’s news,
if only there were more
than body counts. I choose
to write letters that can
never be sent, to waste
afternoons making plans
that are moot. I can taste
my grandfather’s cooking
in my dreams. Deliver
them, Lord—I am looking
across a wide river. 
The Other City