1941

It was the spring I began menstruating,
Pearl Harbor hadn’t happened yet, the
interval between wars, peace and hard times—
In Civics class, we were learning
about unions and strike-breakers, men
hired to break the bones of workers
walking the picket lines; I became
so involved, I didn’t notice the wetness
between my thighs
 
That July, in my daily uniform: shorts,
puffy blouse, to hide my budding breasts,
“Grapes” sniffed the saleslady, I
scratched and squirmed in my first bra,
uncertain where to go
 
The local variety store sold stale
candy bars, half-price—
Cut off by the two-story concrete
embankment of the el, its vast emptiness
existed in an isolated enclave—Half-
hidden in twilight, the stamped tin ceiling
repeated a pattern of squares and curlicues,
a city map unrolling its avenues, flies
banged on the cloudy glass display case, I blew
dust off Hershey Bars, Three Musketeers
 
The store fronted for a bookie, behind a
curtained doorway, men’s harsh voices rose,
fell, shushed to silence—
Sweet acid chocolate slid down my throat—
Dog-eared comics bent over wire racks,
I’d flip the months-old, sun-faded pages—
Always the lone customer, I hoped
for a glimpse of Roscoe, my 8th grade crush,
the beautiful boy with dark, smoky curls and
his name the slang word for a gun
 
Each visit I heard
the liquid voice of the harmonica
float from an upper window
the unseen player, tilted back in a chair,
hands cupped around his mouth, drawing breath
from the soles of his feet propped
on the windowsill
as if his entire body was the instrument
serenading the dying afternoon,
the el train slowing for a stop,
light withdrawn to pale gold on the concrete wall



‘1941’ appeared in
Central Avenue issue #21, August 2004