Poems by Amy Gerstler

Slowly I Open My Eyes
(gangster soliloquy)

While the city sleeps there’s this blast of silence that follows
the whine of daylight a defeat that wraps itself around buildings
like a python, or one of those blue sheets they bundle corpses
up in. Wanna go for an ambulance ride? Fragments of the sordid
and the quote unquote normal vie for my attention. Hacking coughs
and seductive you-hoos dangle in the 3 a.m. air. Up on this roof, I
smoke cigarettes and wait. I feel like god up here. No kidding.
Jerusalem Slim on his final night in the garden. Mr. X, Dr. No,
the Invisible Man. All the same guy, different movies. It’s a city
of delinquents: my disciples. Maybe some bum down below finds
one of my stubbed-out butts and is delighted. Everybody’s looking
for something to inhale and something else to empty into. The
whole city reels and twinkles at my feet, but the stars aren’t
impressed. They see it every night. The eighty-year-old elevator
operator downstairs snores like he’s trying to suck up the Hudson.
Humans act like they’re going to stick around forever, but nobody
ever does. That’s what cracks me up.


"Slowly I Open My Eyes" from Bitter Angel, North Point Press, 1990

Sleepless in Queens
 
Listen up you big lug. You slide out of my bed
at this ungodly hour, shrug your shoulder holster on,
and tiptoe around hunting for your fedora.
Not so fast. If you're half as tough as you pretend
to be and not a total heel you'll sit your ass down
and uncork your ears. Unless I get some snappy
answers tout suite I'm not gonna lie back in my
black slip smoking and waiting for you tomorrow
or ever again. That get your attention, Big Boy?
 
Hey Houdini, I've had it with your disappearing act.
Not a peep for weeks. Then, when the night's alive
with sirens, you scale my fire escape, tumble in
the window cradling a fifth of gin, beat up and bleeding.
 
Push has come to shove, you two-bit sap.
A girl's gotta protect herself from chiselers like you.
You better ante up bigtime or I'm calling it quits so fast
your head'll spin. You can keep your C notes and furs,
your diamond studded money clips and perfume,
your engraved cigarette cases and naked lady ashtrays.
 
Let's put our cards on the table, ok? I mean
a lot more to you than you'll ever admit.
So you gotta clue me in once in a blue moon
as to what goes on inside your noodle, you goof.
I wasn't too bright when I let you take me down
by the railroad tracks last spring. That first kiss
was hard enough to hurt. But I'm wise to myself
now. You got a voice, with lots of silk in it,
so use it! Cops couldn't beat this confession
out of me, but I'm totally unstrung tonight.
So to hell with playing it safe: you're the only man
I ever loved or ever will. You better open
your kisser quick and say something sweet
to me and mean it. Otherwise, get lost for good.
I wanna be with somebody who loves me
and is man enough to say so.
 
 
 
 

Amy Gerstler's most recent book of poems is Is this My Final Form (Penguin Random House, April, 2025). Her work has appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies, including the New Yorker, The Atlantic Magazine and Paris Review. In 2019, she received a Foundation for Contemporary Arts CD Wright Grant. In 2018, she was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship. In addition to poetry, she writes plays, journalism and art criticism.

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