Wax Cups
The bridge over the Long Island Expressway
was a jackdaw cutting through holiday traffic.
a father flanked by young daughters,
McDonald’s sodas in hand,
bundled in winter coats,
watched the cars below.
The daughter to the left,
her ponytail unfurling with flyaways
at the temples—
in middle school we called them “wings”—
jumped, pointing at cars,
as we slipped along underneath.
They were 495 East sentinels
celebrating a winter ritual.
Years from now, with the snow
falling sideways, they’d recall
icy hands pressed
against waxy cups,
while the world sped under their feet—
their dad in the center of it all.
Museums exist, hovering
over small towns, contained
entirely in watching bodies.
We tread well-traveled paths
until we reach the bridges
suspended above our childhood.
“Remember?” the girl in the pink coat
will ask her winged sister,
and they’ll see times
they didn’t know were sacred
until much later.
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