51-54

If it’s cold out, my nose must be running.

I do not carry a handkerchief

From an aversion developed early on

In grade school

Heartily approved of by my classmates

And their pointing fingers and exclamations

Of my pulling apart and diligent fruitless search,

Repeated numerous times throughout the day,

For and unsullied spot.

My sister and her dresses,

Walking me home from school

On a cold winter’s day

Bore the brunt of my budding aversion.

In my own defense

She had it coming

For laughing at the frozen stream,

But more,

For abandoning me to my short pants terrors

In the middle of the bridge over the Chicago River

On our way to Montgomery Wards

She yelled “The bridge is opening!”

Jerked free of my hand with sadistic pleasure

And ran.

 

Permanent Damage

I almost killed my sister when,

To see what would happen,

I was dropping bricks to the sidewalk with Frankie

Off his dingy second story white frame porch

Next to Pumpilio’s cinder covered truck lot

Where flattened cats swarmed with maggots

And bums slept in trailers parked up against the Soo Line

At the back of the lot.

A brick hurtled toward my sister’s long black braids

Like a meteorite from second story space

Before she paid some department store girl in Goldblatt’s

To cut all her hair off.

My mother maybe cried for days

After she marched my sister back to the store

Where I’m sure a lengthy discussion with grown up words ensued.

With split second timing

Saving me from a lifetime of remorse and explaining

One of my girl cousins or somebody

Pushed or pulled and the brick hit the sidewalk

With unspectacular result.

The incident opened my mouth to a perfect O

Until a nun at Saint John’s

Latched onto my ear

And marched me out to the hall sink

Where she attempted to wash away my sins

And seal my mouth with many applications of flax soap

Doing the opening and closing mechanism permanent damage.

Absolution

They marched us out of class under holy submission.

In through the side door,

Past the Stations of the Cross

Like little penitents on pilgrimage,

To our required act of contrition.

The oldest nun in the convent had died.

Up a side isle

They led us up to the coffin

To pay or our due of adoration to their holy order.

With assistance from the wives of Christ,

I leaned in

And before I closed my eyes

I noticed cheeks the color of shriveled fruit

Tasting of damnation and musty leather.

Sometime after they let me go

And led us in solemn procession back to school

It’s possible I stole a tricycle during nap time

From Sister Thorette’s kindergarten

And they caught me escaping down Milwaukee Avenue

Peddling with furious rage.

Fishing with Henry

Late night fishing for bullheads,

Slanted poles up against concrete,

Line taut, spearing the water’s reflected gleam,

Waiting for the twitches to start,

Drinking a beer, maybe a pull from a pint,

Or smoking a bowl and paying attention to the stars,

Pin points of light

Crawling in unexplained direction

Across a whimsical sky,

And the cool breeze blowing off the lake

Ruffling the hair on our arms,

Twirling cigarette smoke

Before you went off to war

And saw and heard and knew things

You didn’t want to see or hear or know.

It was easier then, when the pole started to twitch,

Hands poised, patient, waiting to set the hook,

To know when to act and what to do,

To reel in something with barbs not difficult to avoid,

Unlike those you are not waiting for,

Get under your skin and never leave.