myrtle street

i grew up on myrtle street

two blocks from the levee

there was an old rail car in the yard next door

i fed the litter of stray kittens that lived beneath it

and gave them names

snowball

ginger

jingles

but I ran when the neighbor lady came out

she was fat and mean

and her husband cursed

i was sure they could put me in jail

for trespassing

i worried a lot about getting caught trespassing

maybe because we said the lord’s prayer

every night before bedtime

and I figured if I had to be forgiven

for my trespasses that often

it must be a really bad thing

an ancient looking woman

lived just across the street

in an ivy-covered house

with tall white columns

she was a widow

one of those words

that was always whispered

with downturned eyes

and was waif thin

with a pouf of white hair on her head

that made her look like a q-tip

she had a miniature poodle

with pinkish eyes

and a grey-haired butler named walter

walter would come out to the street

to empty her garbage every afternoon

while she and the pink-eyed poodle

were out for a walk

he would nod and wave a leathery hand

while I did somersaults in the front yard

i remember the sound of broken glass

there was an old garden shed

behind mr noe’s house

my sisters took me out to it

and pointed to the rust-covered tools inside

they said it was the blood of the slaves

he used to keep there

and that their ghosts

still haunted it

i worried extra hard

about my trespasses after that

on weekends

we’d swim in the bayou to cool off

jumping from the pontoon boat

and floating on innertubes

the fathers

would drink cold beers

and bbq hotdogs

while the mothers

smoked cigarettes

and watched the kids

out of the corner of their eyes

to make sure none of us drowned

or got too close to the cypress trees

where the water moccasins lived

i worried a lot about water moccasins too

i didn’t know anyone who’d actually been bit

but there were stories that got passed around

like currency

did you hear

did you know

let me tell you

every kid knew someone

whose dog had been eaten

by an alligator

but no one

could remember just who

the older kids would hold their breath

and swim beneath the boat

making the mothers put down their drinks

to peer over the little metal railing

and then cluck their tongues

when they reappeared laughing

and gasping for air

the styrofoam bubble strapped to my back

meant I couldn’t follow them

i had to dog paddle nonstop

just to keep my face above the murky surface

even the scorching summer sun 

couldn’t penetrate the darkness

below me

so much

would always remain

hidden from

my view