Fighting Kite (page 11)

This is the third poem in Fighting Kite. This one was not written when I was in MFA school, like the first two poems in the book. In this poem, my son Gabe is portrayed as six years old; he's now 26, so this poem was written about 20 years ago. Since the book was published 17 years ago, I already had the book in sight when I wrote this poem, with the collection in mind.         On the Avenue of the Americas, at noon two weeks ago Tuesday, a nun paced the grimy concrete, robed in black, a starched, white veil framing her stunning face, one-in-a-million supermodel cheekbones. Fifth grade, St. Agnes School, we boys bet on whether Sister Helen had hair beneath her wimple. Blonde? Redhead? A pageboy cut? Fishnets under her floor-length skirt? She shone in daydreams: rosary beads against nude skin. Today, my six-year-old son wriggled under the deck, a crawl space half-lit by thin slits of sky between planks. The yellow pencil he had dropped, a long-lost fork, an ancient pack of bubble gum—pushed up through the cracks. Near Manila, my father in third grade would plead some urgency—bathroom break? dizziness?—to get himself out of class, then shimmy underneath just such a floor, gaps between boards to let in cool river air for Miss Persephone Burke of Nebraska, a Thomasite teacher. Frilly white blouse, red belt, navy blue skirt sweeping the floor. For a marvelous prank and bragging rights, he would hide a slim, yard-long bamboo cane with a small pyramid of Wrigley’s gum panhandled from American soldiers. Giggling to himself, he would chew and chew until a hearty glob perched on the end of the rod. Crouching directly below Miss Burke, he’d reach up gingerly and stick the wad into her underclothes. A boy straining after what he could not have, joy and bliss forever beyond his grasp: America, Lady Liberty, the stars. Page 11 Compared to the first two poems in the book, I can really feel here how more confident my line breaks are. Of course, this poem was written about 20 years later than those earlier two, thus with 20 yeers more experience as a poet. For example, in the penultimate stanza, I end a line with chew and chew . . . two decades earlier, when I was an MFA student, I would probably have broken those two words apart, with a line break after the first chew, but as written here the repetition within one line brings strength into the language and the concept. In fact, as that younger poet, I might not have used that word twice in one poem at all (my teacher Yusef Komunyakaa used to say in class that if you use a word twice, you are weakening it in both places where it appears). Here I am contradicting my old teacher and have the self-assurance to use both of the identical words almost next to each other. Incidentally, the setting of this poem in New York City was inspired by a trip there with my oldest daughter Amanda for her to receive a Scholastic Gold Key award for literary excellence as a high school senior at Carnegie Hall in 2005. That award included a $10,000 college scholarship. Fun times! As always, I'd love to get some feedback or discuss anything with all y'all. Comment, okay? Thanks. Ingat.  FIGHTING KITE   INTRO FRONT CONTENTS PREVIOUS NEXT LAST