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  • Street Music
  • Grace Alvino (bio)

I climb onto my balcony to hearthe bass and tires blur, to try and guessthe chorus coming from each car. The rearapartment’s spinning Moondance, and I press

my legs into the open air. The cloudsare bleached, translucent in a ruddy sky.I point, then flex my toes. Below, a crowd’sassembled, watching two frail buskers try

to play guitar. The grizzled one attemptssome “Midnight Train to Georgia,” drops his Gchord halfway through. He stops and speaks; contemptis rising in his voice. “I’ll learn—you’ll see

me then,” he coughs. An old man tosses hima dime. Across the street, a woman leansout of her window. Backlit by a dimblue light, she eats a peach. I roll my jeans

above my ankles, trace each curve of bone.The woman meets my eye. We stare, and whenshe bites her peach, I wave. She lifts a loneeyebrow, blinks, and then looks down again. [End Page 28]

Grace Alvino

GRACE ALVINO lives in Baltimore and works at the Johns Hopkins University Writing Center. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry, The Chagrin River Review, and The Sewanee Theological Review.



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