Don't Get Your Penis Stuck in the Bubble Wand
(a day of conversations with, or possibly at, my 3-year-old)
Are we being cats?
You have a choice.
You can, or I can.
Don't bite your dirty socks.
The trucks stop in the hallway.
Don't pull on the hole in your mattress.
Don't fall over the edge.
Are we monkeys now?
Don't frighten the ants.
Their home is outdoors.
Rocks don't live in the house.
That's not a choice.
Do you want naked dinner?
Let's be trucks.
Tell me if you have to go.
You can touch your penis or you can eat tomatoes.
Because that's not clean.
That was a choice, but it isn't anymore.
Am I a baby? Who's the baby?
Let me go ahead of you on the stairs.
Ten more minutes.
Five more minutes.
Don't put food in your pockets.
Not in the same pocket as gravel.
Remind me the cookie's in your pocket.
One more minute.
That was a good loud sound.
Pouring water on the floor hurts people.
Let's be mops. Let's lie down.
I don't want to fall.
Don't pee in the cup you drink from.
Now it's my choice.
You can shut the light.
I'll hold onto you.
The ___ on the bus goes ___ and ___,
___, ___, ___.
Lower East Side Playground, 1974, 2014
The home I got away from has become beautiful
with a gate around it. I trade entry for gossip
with a tortoise-faced man in a brown fedora
who used to compare me to his successful daughter
when we rode the same elevator.
I was born here, in a bedroom above the garbage depot,
when this back playground was open to the street of grandmothers
Yiddish and Spanish, in housedresses and pantyhose,
and I offered myself to their lonely laps.
Puerto Rican fathers showed off their baby girls' earrings
and their heaving, black-tongued dogs.
Between two sheet-metal corners of the jungle gym
I made my tiny throne, a story
I couldn't share with my temporary friends.
Beauty in Manhattan is a far-off flier
of a newspaper riding the thermals
and anything communal is nailed to concrete.
I married a calm man with a gold necktie
who remembers me surviving here
behind a fortress of hair and books,
who remembers me in the mouth of my mother.
For eleven years we have grown our garden elsehwere.
Everyone flipped their apartments and the building planted
ornamental cabbage behind a fence of wrought-iron birds.
A gourmet donut shop edged out the kosher butcher
who casually hacked yellow-skinned chickens in quarters
over a sawdust floor.
The old turtle neighbor asks after my mother.
She's not, she's never been, but I tell him she's fine.
My two-year-old son climbs on bars I don't recognize.
The metal is tender, the ground rubber padded,
the riding toys leave less to imagine
of horse and hippo. He smiles bright as a medal.
He is the scrambled eggs on my admiral hat.
He is happy as a rubber ball.
Across the cloud-marbled sky the June treetops sweep
like Scarlett O'Hara's green velvet curtain-skirts.
My mother's lies are a stopped phone.
I've mislaid her bracelet of bruises.
A soda can bangs in the gutter and the bus that never comes
more than once an hour sinks to a stop
with a contented fart. Was this place never terrible?
We can no longer afford to live
in its smallest rooms.
Forty years on the wind, tomorrow
becomes another day.