Monica Fambrough
How I am Liking Chicago

Among other things

I have placed a new set of names

where it used to say “Monica”

and “Travis,” and “baby.”


I solely find room for

confession—the only mode

that interests me, because it is

all about me.


If you come here, we might

make a place for you. But my gaze

is vulgar. The grocery list

holds my attention. Poems do not.


Dear ________.


I finally read your book.

These are the parts that I liked

because they made me think

about myself:


The part where in 5-minutes

I will blow dry my hair.

The part where at two I made tea.

The part where I worried for thirty minutes


about whether the cat was sick.

The part where I was checking my

email and then I walked to Whole Foods

and by then it was 4.


The part where the poem catches

fire and I use it to signal the pilot

to land the plane.


Look down, I scream.

Someone’s stranded in that city

below you.


Someone’s waving a white sheet

out their window. Someone’s burning

down this building in an effort

to be saved from up above.