Days of 1996

The year I almost swallowed a bee.
Swinging on that crooked swingset
at Charles E. Walters elementary.
A blur of black and yellow came across my vision.
Suddenly, a buzzing reverberated in my skull,
bzz bzz bzz, the bee had entered my open, singing mouth.
First instinct was to close my mouth tight and swallow but
gagging, I ran to spit it out into the sandbox.
I watched it writhing to its death.
This wasn’t the first time I had seen someone die.
I dreamt nightmares of bees for the next few months.

He died that year.
The man whose language I never understood.
That was the year we stopped the long car rides to
the other side of the island; to his little Germany.
No more Sunkist Fruit Jems that sparkled with
crystalized sugar—I always ate the orange ones,
my brother’s favorite, green.
He moved into our basement at age 84,
a two family house containing one.
He took pictures of my brother and I
forcibly entwined in a hug—
at five, this was the worst thing ever.
Mom got mad at my grimacing but
Tommy, being older, knew to smile big.
Grandpa wanted photos of the ones he loved
surrounding him—refrigerators, walls,
countertops and bedside tables.
I thank him now for cataloguing my childhood.

Hairbrush

The dexterity of your handle
is impressed by years of handiwork,
Together, we’ve sculpted masterpieces out of
innumerable strands.
Alone, they seem like nothing
but together, make a whole.

Indigenous to the bathroom counter,
you rarely ever ventured out of
the confines of the home.
Except nights spent in
formal attire.
You were my right hand man
for quick fix-ups in unfamiliar mirrors
when I removed you from your
zippered cell.