Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, Ph.D. |
Poet/Scholar |
by Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, in Pivot |
Veronica
I knew it kept me rare to tell my rare friends from Queens we must avoid a bull when we debarked the BMT.
Above the low platform, skies raced in from New York City, but not faster than that bull. I advised us to hide
our red scarves or red gloves as we left the open station, and stuff them into school bags, and speed cutting for my house, and duck
by the soft blank lots, the black clouds collapsing in folds on the horizons, building us a breathing bullring.
It was true. There was a bull who lived in my Brooklyn then, in Flatlands. A dark ton, the core of the arena, beware -
he mashed the lots riding on the Queen Anne's lace straight for a ruby crucifix or anything that was red. . . .
Those days we were in residence in a brick two-story mortared on the marshes, its long stoop willful, its
cellar's eyes sinking, those days when Wendell Wilkie and then Tom Dewey were lost embattled issues
in the solid brick house of my father's governance, where, slowly being crossed, my father was - yes, baited -
executing his own growing veronica. |
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