I visit the place where my father grew up.
A tall, beige building,
ornate with red
and yellow tiles. A mosaic
of time passing from
another world I am
an intruder, usurping memories;
rapscallioning.
This is the closest
we will ever come to an embrace
I think, pressing my
forehead
to the passenger side window
(which is) sweating with cold.
My brother is balding
and I am embarrassed to
see him:
this is also a testament.
He is here out of habit; I am grasping for one.
I live on the other side of this Peninsula
but the space the separates my Brooklyn from
this Brooklyn
is thick and rippling,
like churning through an ocean
of uninterrupted butter.
It takes years for me to get here and
next time I will row faster,
I think of saying.
There is a Ginkgo tree leaning
into us
from behind the glass.
She is heavy with leaves like
canary
wings fluttering.
I cannot help but wish for larger hands
so that I might wrap them around her slender
trunk and shake them free.
I am too familiar with
the stench of
fruit, chalky pink, seeds like wrinkled
plums that rest between the
gravel and sidewalk.
Everything her turns yellow first.
