Where the Water Meets the Sky

We move in fog in reek of fish,
sneaking out screen-less windows at night,
climbing down garage roofs or window-tapping trees.

In slick shiny streets under faint blue light,
we dance in silence to the beach.
The bosses and their workers snore through the perfect time.

We scream our names like angry owls under the bridge by the beach.
Your brother slept here, where the tunnel curves by the road.
One night he saw us, he was singing the Rolling Stones.

Knees winked from the holes in his filthy white pants.
Car lights flashed him a spotlight of shame.
We pretended not to hear him say, Get outta here.

The sand is sharp, but we go barefoot.
Tiny pieces of glass prick our feet reminding us of pain we haven’t felt.
The air, foul and alive as we strip down under each other’s starlike eyes.

The two of us back float, white stick bodies in bruised and murky water.
Only hands touching, we breathe out the memories of the day,
stare at celestial light born before we were.

You claim there is a spot where the water meets the sky,
where souls swim free and no one calls them home.
In the morning, we sneak back to wake our parents.
Remind them to take us to school.

Uncle Hugh

I remember the day my father punched your face in.
We kids were all watching over the banister.
We laughed.
The story went that you came without calling,
to catch Dad at his worst.
You loved seeing him that way.
You pretended that you came to see us,
because it was Christmas and you had presents.
I wondered what they were.
Imagined crisp wrapping paper and bows.
Just for a moment, I hoped you would win.
Take the ten of us out into the night.
Somehow we’d all fit in your big black car.
How it would smell like Aunt Mary’s Wind Song.
We’d drive off into the night, swim in your pool.
I can picture your hair, shiny with Vitalis.
A cleaner version of my father,
you wore a tie for nothing.
You did not drink screwdrivers.
Your kids did not know how to make them.
Your wife thought she was pretty in her makeup and fancy clothes.
Oh how we loved to make fun of you two!
We loved it the day Dad punched your face in.
Really we did.
We loved that we never had to see you see us again.
How did it happen that you had a car?
That your kids were clean and had nice clothes?
How exactly was it that you wore a black suit and shiny shoes,
while my Dad in bare feet and underwear strained
to knock your teeth out onto our kitchen floor?

The Mothers of Dorchester Bay

And we shall have a new bible,
and the holy name shall be Woman.
The colleges shall be made free.
The classrooms will burst open onto Morrissey Boulevard
and the streets and the monuments shall be renamed.
Research shall resume there
where our mothers’ names were removed.
Their dreams once tread upon shall be made new and gleaming,
snapping like sheets in the wind,
strung tight between triple-deckers.
They shall go no more to priests
who devour their sons for being so sweet.
No more shall we be divided into parishes and projects.
My holy mother, St. Joan McDade shall be resurrected and redeemed.
Yes, the mothers of Dorchester Bay
shall float and rise like new Jesus.
All of Boston shall know their stories.
They shall live forever.
Bodies unblemished.
Eyes unblackened.