Grove Street

Grove Street. Heat haze sparkles the mica.
Snot and tears river down my planed cheeks
as I seek the sanctuary of trees

and shadows, silence — maybe transgression,
a quick hop over the boundary fence
and onto Third Street. Harsh words toll out

in time with my sobs. I am 10 years old,
too old for childhood, too young for escape.
Does that sound pretentious? I palm my tears

and even now, I am on that dead end
street with its quiet trees and tempting fence.
I’ll give you something to cry about.

And I am never enough — not soft,
not loving, that glass-eyed doll with her smile
sculpted, a coquette with ringlets.

Don’t talk about it. Nobody cares.
The heat haze steals the shadows.
Past the white house with its pickets like teeth —

One house to the fence, and to Third Street
and something undefinable. My bangs
sticking to my salty eyes, foot up, now —

and I am caught by that Italian man
whose green shred of lawn I trespass, those steps
that turn a dead end into a life.

Does that sound pretentious? He’s holding
the garden hose, calling my name,noosing
me with it, calling the spirit home.

He’s asking me why I am crying.
I open my mouth and only a sob
chokes out. I turn, under that glaring sun

with its puzzling eyes piercing my back —
and I run and I run, sucking the air
through the drowning, and I run down Grove Street —

the silvered turrets of the yard fence,
the yellow house gleaming like a castle,
the moat of my distance walling me in.

Even now, I am on that dead end street.
I’ll give you something to cry about.
Don’t talk about it. Nobody cares.

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About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
This entry was posted in poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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