In Jackson Heights, My Father Outsmarted Puberty
next to LaGuardia runways, spent his summers keel
against terminal shells, smoking
5 cent cigarettes while the bottoms
of his shoes melted to tarmac.
He flirted with flight attendants who drew giveaway pens
from the pocket of their uniform-mating call
to give him six-digit phone numbers scrawled
on grease stained peanut bags.
& at night he slumped over the shoulder
of the LIE, kept his eyes
fixated on polished stones in Cavalry
cemetery: a Queen’s response to her older sibling’s skyline.
Golem in the Backseat of Our Parents’ Blue Station Wagon
Facing behind, we stare into eyes too focused on rain
to see us: children with oversized scowls, my seatbelt
crushing heather green wool coat (two siblings too
large), his fingers pointed into fleshy laser gun. Hips
calloused to collapsible third row, feet tangled in
ripped yellow of old ikea duffel. My good time is not
interchangeable Sunday morning talk radio or mid
twentieth century architecture. Stagnation at sixty
miles per hour: finding sand between creases of felted
velour seats in late December
Bibi Lewis is a senior at SUNY Geneseo, originally from New York City. When she isn’t writing, she can be found knitting or rambling about feminism. She was published in Gandy Dancer 1.2. She would gladly share a lemon bar with Gertrude Stein or Michael Chabon.