It’s not the boy who arrests me, it’s the man I recognize above the boy, a man on a balcony who’s dropping a wet skirt to dry over the steel rail of it, and a blouse, and a towel, and other laundry, and then blue sheets.
Only your great grandmother came straight from the kitchen to the table, still stinking of brine and iron. Resplendent in her Shabbos skirt, matte ocher blood becomes evening gloves.
“The third indicator of spring is the arrival of prospective businessmen. They enter the woods and go from tree to tree, soliciting ‘lucrative opportunities’ to the area. One of them had long legs and a short torso. His skin was smooth and reflective.”
“He flourished the tickets last Saturday…You were stepping out of your slip-ons. The daycare was a mess; the babies had passed around a cold and their whines stuck in your head, like the shadows bodies leave on walls after explosions.”
“The girls grew up too fast, painted their eyes with glitter on Halloween and vanished under black cloaks and lace stockings, hiding their long faces and broken cherries from the boys sleeping in shadows outside Mr. Pink’s Deli, the lingerie shop on Seventh Avenue, their front step once their daddies turned the light out.”