Poetry

Caper's Poets

Summer 1970 — Amy Soricelli

Carmen lived on the top floor of the cloudless Bronx.
Her window faced the moon.
Sometimes Carmen would pile up her stuffed animals on a chair,
By the window – like steps.
She’d say “dare me?”
Her eyes all twinkly, shiny with death.
Carmen’s brother, Hector,
Handsome bad in ripped everything –
Never went to school.
He died right there in the street one night –
Carmen all shrugged shoulders, easy care….
Sniffing back her tears, tough-acting
With her broken heart and pedicure…
And the police cars, with their alien lights,
Around and around on my bedroom ceiling.

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Filed under: Amy Soricelli, Issue 3,

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