USA

ROXI50@aol.com 

Visits

1.
Mike calls, says, "Sis, I'm scared,
how long can I last. This bulge just down
from my sternum..." Dick and I get 
into the Chevy. drive the Turnpike,,
snow removal trucks ahead. Five hours later 
we're at his door, an apartment near

the Bronx zoo. His life sweet and sour
all along. After mama died,
he took to his woolen hat, wore it through the hot
summer, broke his arm playing stick ball,
got messed up with a gay school janitor,
used the fire-escape window to make 

nocturnal visits to widow next door. Papa nailed 
the window shut. Mike flunked out of high school,
apprenticed to electrician Biondi, papa's friend,
married Betty when she missed two periods
in a row. Betty greets us at the door, says
doctor doesn't give him much time.

2.
Lung cancer. We find him seated on the couch,
his crooked arm showing under the knotted sleeve.
First thing he said, "I feel like shit
all those vitamins and health food.
What good did it do?" Betty's eyes tear
memories raise goosebumps on the back of my neck.

Betty flits into the kitchen, returns
with coffee and toll-house cookies she made
to keep busy she says. Bing Crosby sings
"White Christmas" on the Atwater Kent 
radio. Mike says, "I won first prize 
with that song at St. Martin's Minstrel Show .

You did't think I could do it. Jesus, you never
gave me credit for anything." He shuts
his eyes and grips his knees. Betty gives
him a shot. Slowly, he releases his knees,
opens his eyes, brown as a soft velvet pillow,
a serene drifty look on his face. More coffee? Sure.

3. 
Mike wants to talk
about papa, our picnics in Crotona Park,
fried pepper sandwiches, tossed
bean bags papa had stitched. The kids we were
we are again, my pulse pounds in my ears.
Me and Mike jumping on the bed, falling down,

his lips meeting mine. "Why can't 
brothers marry sisters?" he had asked.
Now he struggles for air, then goes on.
Fourth grade he won the chinning contest. I can see him
hanging from the bar, straining to chin up,
up to what was, what is, loaded down with what will

never be. Mike and I laughed about the time he ran
away, said mama had moved, time he made
a visit, got lost, ended up that night sleeping
on the roof on papa's old army cot.
Mike's skin , the whites of his eyes have
the yellow tinge of a late Fall day.

© All Copyright, 2000, Savina Roxas.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.