Maybe a hand-me-down from Uncle B,
smells like a garage. Surely heād found it,
fixed it up, tinkered with it, passed it on.
Room enough for the whole carpool to school.
Once the heavy beast slid down an icy hill
as my mother tried everythingābrake,
steering wheel, horn, all as impotent
as she. I can still feel that quiet slide.
Somehow on the way to visit the Concord
grandparents, a door swung wide
and my brother Stephen fell onto the curb
on the Alewife Bridge, his chin bloody.
I learned the body could be sewn back up
as cloth that tears can be made whole,
just a seam, a small scar left. No words
for awe, just a sting called jealousy.