320 Danforth Street

Breathe in.

The smell of our house after we’d been away,

The smell of dinner downstairs.

Of cabbage,

Of fire.

Of summer, mildew, home.

The radiator where I’d drape wet mittens to dry,

After playing in the snow.

The radiator where I’d hidden

my uneaten sandwiches,

After school,

Because they were tuna with mung beans,

Unsprouted,

And fishy.

Because I foolishly believed no one would find them there,

Because it took years before anyone did.

Never thinking instead to ask for a different lunch,

Or to throw away the sandwiches

Before I’d left for home.

The living room,

The ballet recitals 

Given by me,

To an imagined audience,

In a leotard with snaps at the crotch,

And sagging tights with seams showing

In un-Danskin places,

With ballet slippers I’d wished were toe shoes.

Lit by the light of the slide projector,

Plugged in for me,

No slides,

Just the light shining on my dancing.

Just me,

On the fireplace hearth,

Famous.

The room of glass never heated,

Even with a woodstove.

Yet my mother brought

Blue and white mugs,

Packets of powdered hot chocolate,

Spoons,

Small cloth napkins,

Russian Spice Tea we'd bought,

Because we liked the smell,

Even though we didn’t like tea,

And put them all in a small set of cardboard drawers,

with little plastic loops for drawer pulls.

The room was so cold.

Yet my mother brought

A kettle to put on the stove,

And we’d wait for the water to heat.

We’d ready our tea in our mugs,

and we’d pour the almost hot water

over it,

And we’d sit

and sip

Until it was too cold to sit and sip.

And pretend we were warm

While the snow fell outside.  

Out of the tub just before 7

On a Sunday

So I could sit

In my flannel nightgown

With a towel around my wet hair

At the foot of my parents’ bed

and watch

Disney

I wasn’t allowed in

Without his permission.

His room was dark

And smelly

And private.

He was sure I wanted to be in his room,

Which was true.

He rigged an alarm to sound

whenever I opened the door.

I learned over time

To open it

slowly,

So slowly,

And could enter without a sound,

And could look through his desk,

And take his money,

and put the small rubber bands from his braces

Around my tongue,

Dividing it into two

Or three,

Like sausage links.

I marked the sunrise

in pencil,

Just a small dot,

Hidden in the confusion

of blue flowers

and swirls.

No dates,

No times,

Just when I happened to notice

its light

as it smoothed its way

along the walls

of my bedroom.

He locked me in

While I was in the tub,

Or looking at myself in the mirror,

Or looking at the neighbors out the window.

I didn’t hear him turn one of the locks,

But when I’d hear him turn the other,

I was locked in.

Screaming.

Let me out!

Let me out!

I hate you!

I imagined opening the window and climbing somehow onto the high sill

and squeezing through

the too small space

And jumping down

the too high height

And dying

Or breaking all my bones

And wait until I tell!

Wait until they find out!

I hate you!

Let me out!

Crying,

Sobbing,

Until he let me out

With no apology.

Baby.