Amy Soricelli - 2

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The First Noel

Allison from high school had a paper smile 
torn at the edges-
ran for a bus against the windy round corner
of her jumbled-up neighborhood. 
B
lack eyed boots and three lonely brothers.
I ate cookies at her house one soggy 
morning before holiday break.  
Her mother swaying around the 
kitchen to Frank Sinatra,
the tossed family mail covering crumbs 
on the thin plastic tablecloth.   
No one in her small kitchen dreamed 
of fancy cars on the highway 
or globes spinning
;
soaring planes against wide open skies.
They were 
trapped between countries
, 
their 
language getting lost on the rim of a glass.   
Her father studied me hard then 
barreled down the stairs  
returning hours later 
with a small Christmas tree - 
slanted and confused
he held it up like a prized fish.
S
he told me once - 
as she puffed her Marlboro lights 
in the deep tunnel of our high school staircase -
that no one listens to 
her screams;
she could crawl her way out of a cloud 
and had eyes in the back of her head.
Allison from high school pulled me with her 
into the top shelf of the hallway closet 
to search for stars, glass balls - long tubes of snow. 
Made from detergent and baking soda 
they sat in a marked box 
trapped like time and stuffed with tissue.
We spent hours tossing tinsel, stretching ribbons - 
and when each skinny branch 
was somehow given a fix - 
placed it on a covered box. 
We sat holding hands looking at the shiny cones of silver;
candy canes hanging their necks 
dangling like question marks. 
Look a
t what we made 
Allison said. Look at what comes from nothing.
​

Mercy Me

Kindness is curious -  it sits in jars. 
It mistakes itself for grace - 
slips through the bars of good will.
Kindness sometimes lives 
on its own mountain - 
looks at itself in mirrors; 
it never judges itself -never gets full. 
Kindness races down the street with its mouth open  -
words of reassurance following like a shadow.
It holds your thoughts like a place setting.
Kindness is air-tight and rolls down stairs 
wrapped in the problems of everyone else;
step after step pouting like a lemon. 
Kindness forces those seeds out - 
then lines them up at the edge of the sink. 
You can tell when kindness has swept over you - 
it leaves the hair curled on your shoulders 
and weeps the willow out of the branches.  
It closes in deep when your hand is empty.
Kindness doesn't ring the bell 
it opens the bottom of the window 
and one foot at a time 
invades the air between the words.
It's the high-top of your sneakers 
and the down-low of the secrets you keep hidden.
If you sought out kindness on a deserted street corner 
it would be the last vacant glow from the passing cars -
it would not spray rain in your face.
Kindness holds its nicknames in folded squares of paper -
it is the voice as you toss and turn - 
the sleep that finally takes your hand.
Kindness is the best of that love 
you can only now remember.
​​

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Saturday in the Park

If you learn to fly a kite I guess it would be the windy side of the day that
​     mattered. 
The butter on toast with just the hint of something else. 
You would have to check the sky for leftover rain -night shadows  
​     hiding restless messages -
faces of midnight moons hiding behind the stars.
You would be held to higher standards once it lifted into the air -
while it floated people would be close to you wearing you like a scarf. 
Eyes following it down the nothing of air - like a million lost roads.
All you know stops making sense with the striped buckets of color and light; it
​     would dip -
curl high above the sullen pockets of land -
then test the ground and run its finger through its hair.
It would be fierce then frightened. 
Solid and uncertain.
You can't lie to a kite.
It knows you in the flick of your wrist - senses you like a cloud. 
Kites hear the light gasps of air as you watch it tease and twist - 
it acts casual with you but it's more bossy than the sun.
He taught me once about kites in some beige,soft spot of sky. 
I ran along side that lonesome string tripping over sand
and the sound of his voice.
​

We Missed the #68 to Orchard Beach
​and Went Home Instead (July, 1969)

Dusty tunnels in the afternoon 
a kaleidoscope of dust  - 
you can squint your eyes to see the particles 
streaming through the Venetian Blinds like a magic trick. 
If you hold a pipe cleaner up to the window 
and wave it like a sword you can
cartoon yourself back into your sandals; 
escape the odd feeling of a bathing suit under your jeans.
The cats under the couch looking for the lost Spalding balls -
someone's mother calling from the window 
screaming Spanish accents into the dirty Bronx air.
It's all you could do to get away from the sun
the sun -
streaky down on your neck 
little pools of streaky sun.
Packed deep into ice - 
lost sandwiches kicked down the street 
like a failed math test.
Ice cream money singing loose change songs 
in your sweaty pocket.
You can hide under the cushions/ find pennies there.
go outside go outside go outside.
Her voice trails along the lines of the wall 
where we scraped our shoes kicking the boredom -
the sadness.
Everything is always the same here- 
everyone hates us.
Blending into the wallpaper 
we creep along the ceiling - 
lost children 
right under her nose.
why can't you go outside.
We shuffle through the boxes under the bed -
she hides things there 
in between the dead shoes single socks.
Found a dollar folded like a swan.
He punches me sometimes hard on the arm 
bam bam bam.
Same spot all the time 
leaves a blue and green mark 
round like a puddle.
Pulls my hair across the room 
until i land smack in the middle of his nightmare.
go outside go outside go outside.
Motown music walks a tightrope 
from the electric chord on the kitchen table its copper penny brother
steadying its arm 
scratching out the angry move your hips music.  
We all know i got no rhythm.
Soap bubbles tossed in the bathroom 
buckets of water like a beach.  
Make a beach from blankets 
spread across the flat blue carpet in the bedroom.
Pails and shovels 
and shells made from broken dolls without eyes.
No waves/ ocean sounds.
But it's a beach for today.  
There's all this sand. 

Why Taking the #6 Train From
​the Bronx is So Awfully Difficult

You don't know how people live 
she told me. 
How they crawl across the floor on all fours 
how they scream in the night, 
spit glass through those sounds in your head.
You don't know how hard it was to end up here
on the edge of this cliff. 

She's ranting on the #6 train 
in small puffs of black air.
Sharing her small space of seat 
with a pregnant  woman –
shaking her fists at the holes in her sleeves.
Those mittens will get caught 
like lies between your teeth.
Eyes darting to her then me; 
a sliver of air fits between her coat
and the long loose lines of my legs.
Sharing thin strips of black hollow 
air/cloudy windows with names in markers
Smeared across the glass.
I drink my coffee - the swallowed up gathering of us 
in deep woolen coats 
and those blank, startled noises pushing us 
along slamming into stops 
and those lights from the tunnel.
​

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