our home wedged between
the other two-story white houses.
Narrow driveways threaded
like ribbons to gardens bursting
with tomatoes, squash, and eggplants.
I rode my bike for salami
and bread past porches heavy
with honeysuckle vines.
My mother, waiting,
retraced her steps over
the worn linoleum floor
as the sewing machine stitched
dresses for me by a grandmother
who spoke no English,
planted jonquils turning
the afternoon air yellow,
tethering me to home.
(c)Ann Shalaski 2007
from World Made of Glass
San Francisco Bay Press, San Francisco, CA
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