A blood orange sun told me not to stay.
Ears and heart outstretched, I’d bow to its
splendor until it dropped from the horizon.
Born to be Wild screeched from huge
speakers at the church carnival,
where we hid behind big trees
with former altar boys, tantalizing our younger
sisters still afraid of the dark, who dressed in
Danskin short sets. Our bachelor neighbor next
door neighbor lived with his married sister.
A staid accountant at the electric company
by day, on Saturday nights he would stumble
home, cutting through the neatly trimmed
hedges, blood running down his face.
But my fear of booze didn’t last.
I sipped Tequila Sunrises and Sloe Gin Fizzes
while listening to Supa Philly, wrapped in my
mother’s Von Furstenberg dress. Men thought
I was way older than seventeen. See, good
Catholic girls knew how to laugh and drink and dance
The tree tops caught our secrets and remained mum.
About Amy Barone
