CARNIVAL BAYOU

We left the city at dusk in your white delivery van
Cityscape abruptly morphed into Garden State Parkway conveyor belt of headlights and taillights and dark nothing on either side

The simplicity of the place was always most pronounced on nights like these
Transported from the city’s cacophony to the roar of waves crashing below the boardwalk
A Norman Rockwell painting of summertime Americana
Teenagers moved in restless clumps, looking for whatever trouble they could find in a town of summer homes, souvenir shops and a public drinking ban

I was already a young woman when I first visited
Yet somehow I remember it differently, as if I too spent the glory days of my childhood there
A twin bed next to sand dollar ornaments and framed nautical knots
Sundown dinners on the dock featuring your mother’s grape tomatoes
Your father proudly piloting his pontoon boat

I know the place is still there
Hurricane Sandy hit hard, but the boardwalk was spared
The black light back room still glows trippy neon nag champa behind the record store

Teens continue to prowl around — having always been young and thus feeling eternally so
Immortal, invincible
A seaside resort town oblivious to the passage of time.

KING TIDE

Perihelion and perigee
King tide floods everything
The grass will die but it won’t faze me
Full as the moon, I just want to feel free

New year but the same old me
Cicadas drown out everything
I try to write but my head’s buzzy
Don’t get much sleep, I just need to feel free.

ALPHA-GAL

Cancelled plans led to a shortcut across the park
Climbing the steps to the house
Ducking behind a tree to jump out in surprise

You froze the tick as we know to do
Tiny slivers of pain spread down my scalp
“Anaphylaxis” I blurted out, unconfidently
As my ears throbbed and my throat swelled

The finest line separates the did not and the did
I watched her little sleepy gait wobble and veer
Too close to the edge and I nearly called out
But I feared my outburst might cause her to trip

And then she did and the nightmare was real
I screamed her name, hoping it could be undone
How often I forget how thin the line is.

2 JANUARY 2019

The cheap stroller jams repeatedly between uneven sidewalk segments
My cold hands grip the handles — situated a couple of inches too low to accommodate good posture
My daughter chants vowel sounds to the drone of the plastic wheels on concrete
A canvas bag falls from my shoulder and swings at my elbow as I push along the city blocks
Charlie scans for children and playgrounds as I parade her past landmarks of my New York past
We slip inside St. Mark’s Church where dancers are stretching before a rehearsal
I pause to take a picture of Peter Stuyvesant in the courtyard outside
A picture I’ve taken before when a fresh rose was laid below the bust
I watched her place it there before she headed out through the wrought iron gates and into the city night.