The Girls in My Neighborhood
had names like songs,
like arias in fact,
that rose into the sky
and fell in handfuls of confetti
across the sun.
Santa and Rosa,
sweet as the Little Flower herself,
Teresa, Angela, Gracia,
church bell glitter
falling from the Seraphim,
Sylvia, Stella, Maria gleaming in moonlight.
Immaculata Concepcione! Presiosa!
A black-clad mother's voice rang down the sidewalk
and girls we called Connie and Sina for short
dropped the end of a jump rope
and became a soft percussion of steps,
a whisper of acquiescence, the creak of a screen door.
Christiana who got to watch the nuns eat in the convent,
Carmella carrying altar lace, Caterina celestial mystic,
Cosmina and Mariana graceful as boats on the sea.
All of them except me.
Eileen!
My mother bellowed,
with an emphasis on the "eye",
her voice at full tilt
rain-lashed and battered
as the Irish cliffs in a storm.
The street went silent then,
and I pictured them making the sign of the cross
as I took the longest way home I could.
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