past Wallingford you say, again,
is where Lenny Golub lived; he died
forty-five, in Belgium, when a mine
up his jeep; he was nineteen." This
us to Massachusetts, where our son's
is making dinner, and the kids,
underfoot, pull all the pans
of the cabinets and bang the lids.
know when to start looking for our car,
starfish hands smearing the window glass.
always make it. Having come this far
count on destinations. But you pass
town more quietly than most, your mind
friends delayed elsewhere forever, who
their names and their brief dates behind
heavy summer green, to ambush you.
past Wallingford you'll say, again,
is where Lenny lived; he died—let's see—
forty-five, in Belgium; that was when
jeep blew up. He was nineteen, like
Rhina P. Espaillat
From Landscapes with Women: Four American
Singular Speech Press, ©
1999; first published in Plains
Poetry Journal. Reprinted
by permission of the author.