My parents knew nothing of the land,
raised in tenements on sepia avenues,
chock-a-block with lantzmen.
In the family way, they nested on a tree-
lined street, in a house that was set
sideways, on a narrow lot, with a steep
driveway up and the city line passing
through. We lived on that border,
a family young, mobile, on edge.
They say, I walked before I crawled,
then ran, tumbling out the backdoor
into the yard, falling headlong
into a border of roses, bloodied
by that wooden net of thorns.
My father, furious, not at me—if
only my innocence would last—
but at the bushes. He ripped each one
out by the root, baring hardpan dirt.
For years, he nursed a small patch
of lawn, yellow then brown, as baby
trees matured, deepening the shade.
In disgust, he paved the yard over—
cement ringing out a return to roots.
I aimed my ball at the mulberry stains,
twirling one leg over an alphabet
of names to unlock the mystery called
love. At night, my heart jingled
like a pocketful of tokens, full of
wishes I made upon the skyline,
twinkling two-fare zones away.
Tina Posner lives in San Diego, CA, by way of Austin, TX, and her native New York City. Her work has appeared in River Heron Review, Oyster River Press, Mantis, Ocean State Review, and more, as well as in multiple anthologies. She holds an MFA in poetry from Pacific University.
