Teresa Narey’s poetry has appeared in Misfit Magazine, No Tokens, and Pittsburgh City Paper, among others, and anthologized in Extract(s) Volume 2: Poems and Stories 2013 and The 2013 Robert Frost International Poetry & Haiku Contests: Winners and Selected Entries. She has an MFA in creative writing from Chatham University.---------
At the End of 10th Grade
In the D. H. H. Lengel Middle School parking lot
in Aunt Cammie’s car, I drive around a sinkhole
the size of |2| spaces, alongside it, an excavator.
The car is a spray-painted yellow ’76 Ford Fiesta,
model name worn off, a concrete block
holds up the driver’s seat. The power steering
cuts in & out. Sometimes I muscle to make
turns. I tell Aunt Cammie all of my secrets:
I sit in the bathroom sink for hours talking to myself,
I make imaginary friends with popular people,
I hold my breath as suicide attempts.
She nods, Been there, then hops out mid-stop,
grabs construction cones, sets them up so I can
parallel park. One try, she says. That’s all you get.
On a Spring Day
We walk down Mahantongo Street
admiring the homes of doctors and lawyers,
among them, the Cobbs. Their marble mansion
is straight from the Gilded Age, entrance stairway
framed by two lion statues.
“You could be a doctor. Own that house,”
Mama points to its wide, red front door.
I imagine on the inside we’d find polished
silverware, Alice blue-rimmed bone china, silver
candelabras, a crystal chandelier, russet leather furniture
the children never jump on—the children,
one practices violin, the other straightens her porcelain dolls.
“Think about the dinner parties,” Mama says.
“We’d come on Saturdays, make deviled eggs
and roast ham. All hold hands, say the Our Father
before we eat. Let’s pray right now
that you have a boy and girl each,
one the men can teach horseshoes, the other the women will adore—”
The front door cracks open. I move along.
Mama lingers, her fingertips tapping
the tops of tulips.