Marianne Szlyk

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.