Tracy Fuad

TRACY FUAD

LUNCH

I sit on the Panke, its masses of green seaweed waving

Anchored in its shallow but swift-moving waters, said to be the fastest river in the city

Which looks almost viscous, thick with the early summer fluff jettisoned by trees

Though, is it really a river?

Trash floats past me, as if on a conveyor belt: a juice box, a foil bag, a sauce cup

Litter on a tour of the city

While I watch, a breeze disturbs my tiny empty packet of wasabi

Carrying it aloft and then into the water

The packet moving downstream with sudden purpose

I glance alarmed to see if anyone has witnessed

But they haven’t

The couple nearest me discussing with intent whether to fly to Lisbon or Madrid

What are the two who’ve appeared with buckets doing?

Maybe they dropped something into these waters, on which a pink flower now passes

They climb in the shallow water, among the masses of dense green leaves

They are fishing out the weeds

They are putting the weeds in their buckets

What will they do with them?

To where will they convey the weeds hauled from the Panke, and for what purpose?

The brown duck, too, buries her head and fishes about for food

Me, I have eaten my fill

ALPHABET

When my space bar breaks, I notice the keys on my keyboard have worn where I’ve touched them

A tiny white hole like an ulcer where my thumb must rest

The S, C, B, M, and L keys obscured by wear

Why not the most common letters? E, T, A, and I remain unmarred

It’s a mystery, but I imagine

It has to do with the angle at which my fingers hit the keys

It’s hard to write without a working space bar, with no space between each word

It’s true I am a sort of violent typer

Really pounding at the letters

A day after I fix the space bar by shaking out my laptop, the T key comes off

I am able to put it back on

It stays on

Later it falls off again

Then again

Eventually I put it back on upside down

This seems to do the trick

BEACH

The mocha really was as good as I’d imagined

My resentment for small dogs still constant

The bird cry really sounded like a child

May you have a blessed day, the woman whose voice was a rock in my shoe said to strangers

People trading tips on the best vacation places while vacationing

We were all complicit in this tangle

I wasn’t confused, just annoyed that not everything was going exactly according to plan

I wished for the season to be over, meaning, tourists

I wanted it empty

It was Sunday

Hopefully they would all leave and take their chatter elsewhere

I couldn’t handle blather

“Very fun,” one half of the couple was repeating

Projecting her voice impressively over the sounds of the ocean

No, the crying was really a baby

Some people don’t know when to stop

I will never own a dog

Definitely, they all insisted multiple times, apropos of their keeping in touch

Finally, they parted

What I wanted was total silence

Too many species gathered on this shore, all of them overly vocal

The speaking woman continuing to make kissy noises to her captive creature

Then carrying him down the stairs, which he could not manage alone

It did feel good admittedly to be out in the world, even if it was all gritty and scratched me

I felt like a person again

A woman hushing Skyler, whom I wondered, child or dog?

I calculated the odds of having a daughter, as if gender were real

Noting the sons of my friends, as if that were how chance worked

I’d dreamt I’d had two sons, exactly as I’d hoped not to

Though once, as a younger person, I would have said I’d rather parent boys than girls

I’d had such a bad girlhood once I was no longer seen as a child

I didn’t know how to act, feel, see, or be, and nobody told me

I thought myself wholly devoid

Actually, I like to come and spend mornings outside at the bay

Despite the constant clang of buildings being built

I need to buy a winter jacket

Write a poem about stampedes

Write Neil and Cheswayo

Send one million emails

Humidify my home, so I don’t dry of dryness

I’m gonna be totally okay

Maybe buy two jackets

I’m going to be just fine

Tracy Fuad is a poet living in Berlin and the author of two books: about:blank (Pitt Poetry, 2021) and PORTAL (U Chicago, 2024).