There’s enough money to fly
to the moon if you wanted.
Or maybe the sun, like she always
said she was. The sun, scorching
Mercury as it revolves. Close
to the sun at the top of the country,
but not close to Brooklyn. Never Brooklyn.
To her, Brooklyn was a story she wanted
the authority to tell. But she’s stolen enough
of my stories, and now, I think, I’m certain,
Brooklyn might just, maybe, belong to me.