Queens Plaza

POETRY

by Julia Lisella

There’s a woman whose memory
comes to me sometimes after more than 30 years
and I don’t always know why she comes to me—
I met her only once in the old neighborhood
on the 30th Street platform in Astoria, waiting for the train
headed to Queens Plaza. She wore a slim skirt,
her hair in a bun, I think. A wool coat.
One of those large leather pocketbooks
with the silver clasp at the top, the stiff
round handles. She told us she was going to see her husband
in the hospital, uptown, that she did not think
he’d ever be coming home. She’d been watching my boyfriend and me
she said, from down the platform, and couldn’t help coming over to talk to us
to tell us we mustn’t cross our legs or our arms,
that if we kept on doing so, we would shorten our lives
by cutting off all that circulating blood to our brains
and our hearts. We offered her our seats, and asked her about her trip
to see her husband in the hospital, how it must be
really hard and she said it was very very hard
and she said she wanted to stand, to keep her circulation moving
and I tried so hard not to cross one leg over the other
while we talked, but after her warning
it was the only thing I could seem to do with my body,
crossing and uncrossing while we watched her face
while she talked to us conspiratorially
and with such affection and concern.