The Year Swing Set Rust Began to Taste Like Blood
from my mother's perspective

1.
The Bay Ridge of my childhood was a simple playground.
On the 69th Street Pier lucky fisherman
would fillet their catch, bones flying
out of the red snapper’s body in chaos like children
sent home early from school.

To hand-me-down Irish kids, an empty refrigerator
in a kitchen meant no dinner for the third night.
But an empty fridge in a neighbor's gutter
meant something else: a two-seater space rocket,
a submarine, the ultimate
hiding spot.

At first Brooklyn played along, seeking
for the missing twins in Owl's Head Park,
in coat donation boxes of local churches,
beneath the skirts of barren women.
I don’t remember the year it became law
to remove all refrigerator doors before disposal,
but I do remember the wake; the entire borough in black,
their mother trying to drown the remainder of the living world
with her sobs. Cold white coffins, like open toy chests, tempted every child
in the room fighting the want to unwrap them, to awaken the perfectly still
dolls. When we lowered them into the ground, my mind made
treasure maps, marking where the city hid
our Christmas presents.

2.
My babies are perfect: iced vanilla,
sprinkles of freckles, topped with tart cherry mouths.
Every mother dreams for children who sleep
like mine, immaculate as frozen pastries.
Sometimes in the night I'll scream
just to make certain
they'll stir.