Staten Island

The garden of strangled flowers
splits a path
to the screen door of a house
built of bricks
and stone
on the island
of elongated vowels
and exaggerated gestures

The mason layers laid a
foundation of generations
where Italian- born immigrants
made their living sewing and cleaning
streets and houses
Ellis Island certificates
Proudly hung
on the walls to prove that they belonged
And that is where they settled till death
did its part

Seeped in the scent of
six different spoiled perfumes
and one lonely cologne
suffering the shrills of no privacy
in the two bedroom prison
with a one bathroom cell
called home

Greeted promptly by printed faces
young and old at
marriages or graduations
resting on a piano
whose music has never been
consumed by others

Decades of collecting dust
ceramic plates, and wooden elephants
line the ceiling
elevated by
rotting shelves
Occasionally diving for death
to end in shards of freedom.

Serving as a refuge to
all the Catholic icons
Jesus, Mother Mary
Cross our heart and pray the lord
to enter

Each Easter packed twenty people
Children, Mothers, Fathers, Aunts and Uncles
dressed their very best
to bring laughter back into the lonely rooms
for the one who stayed
The last sister of five
never left her home

She’s seen it all
or nothing at all.
Only the stagnation of
a house made of
brick and stone
dust and memory