May 28, 2009


by Lyn Lifshin

You can still see
where wrought iron
fire escapes screwed
into brick. At the
siren, boys took
steps four at a time
hoping to beat the
girls whose dresses
they'd look up. BB
and AB blackened in
to a desk in the
cellar. The daughter
he made and would
not be a father to
with her own grown
children now avoids
his phone calls.
Morning glories
tangle around what
is left of the swings,
dark blue as the
eyes of the pale
girl who did her
paper on Scotland,
England and Whales.*
She sleeps safe from
whistles, no longer
blushing as the
petals flaunt and
fling themselves in
hot lilac light

*a friend of Lyn's wrote that paper and yes, that's how she spelled "Wales." Shw mae. -- Editor


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