by Candace Black
My brother built a fort in the ancient one
at Whitehead and Eaton.
Hidden by dense leaves and tortured
branches, he’d startle
passersby with a Tarzan yell.
Even the Conch Train came to include him
in its prattle but he only obliged
when he felt in full voice.
I used the one by the Greene Street gate
for reading, my own room
with branches cupping out from the trunk’s
thick pedestal of aerial roots.
The painter’s scaffolding around the house.
The lifeguard’s elevated chair. The station
wagon’s luggage rack. The back porch
railing. I looked
for roosts. Never hidden-spying
was my brother’s game-but someplace
I could track the neighborhood
currents between chapters.
I was rehearsing a position for life.
Approachable.
Apart.
-from Casa Marina, RopeWalk Press, 2010