Ancestors on Wall Street, Worcester, MA, 1916
Then it was an unpaved path,
crooked, wooden houses almost
touching. Sober, one might’ve woven,
breathed heavy, dodged dogs and horse-drawn carts.
Drunk, my great-grandfather stumbled,
led by his daughter sent to bring
him home from bars on Grafton Street:
Malone’s, Flynn’s. Soon these would be gone.
Years before, my great-grandparents
had their picture taken. They walked
downtown to hold still ten minutes
in new clothes, new shoes pinching.
They sent copies of this portrait
to Lithuania, then kept
a few for children, grandchildren
who drove home on broad, tree-lined streets.
And now here my ancestors are,
on the wall of an urban cottage.
Outside men bike up and down
our street, speak Spanish. Their daughters
also live here, walk up and down
this street. Some drive, but they do not dare
dream of leaving this treeless place.
In the Boston Public Garden
We have gathered these specimen trees here,
not for shade but to be safe from axes,
safe from overhead wires, safe from tall cranes
that tear down, then build this city anew.
Once elms grew on the street. They gave us shade.
They gave their name to one street in each town.
Now, dizzy with sun and the absence of shade,
we walk these streets, carry water, buy Sprite.
I think of an elm I saw once at camp.
Teacher told us it wouldn’t live for long.
Poor tree, the class pest said. He even hugged
the spindly tree. I wonder if it still
lives alone in its woods crowded with oak,
maples, birch, and hemlock. Or if the woods
have survived this time of building anew.
Or what was once our camp is crowded with
treeless townhomes, asphalt, and SUVs.
Dreams of Lafayette
St. Boniface’s narrow, slate spire
punctures the clouds in the sky.
Inside these apartments grad students
read literary theory. Espresso machines
rattle and Diet Coke chills.
A couple calmly speaks French.
His blue bike waits outside.
It is ready for him
to leave this Hoosier city
for someplace on the coast.
Trains shook our wooden house
on Ferry Street every night.
I would dream of earthquakes
cracking windows and ceilings crumbling
in apartments I once lived in.
When we couldn’t get back
to sleep, we graded papers.
We drove to the all-night Village
Pantry across Sixth Street’s tracks.
Now the trains are gone,
rerouted beyond the highway and
strip malls. The Village Pantry
closes at ten. I dream
of Lafayette, living in these
sturdy buildings, strong enough to
protect us and our child.
The bike, the one color,
the metallic shimmer of sky
in this black and white
world, is yours.
Originally published in Eos: The Creative Context.
