Alison Hicks
280 Main Street
I grew up in the town she lived in—
with school groups ascended to her room—
desk—bed with coverlet—white—
dress preserved on a standing hanger—
The younger boy of the family
that occupied the house those days—
parts visitors were not allowed to go—
was my age—I climbed
with him and the girl from across our street
to the cupola—where wasps flew lazily
above our heads—landing
in corners of the glass—
The soul acquainted with the fellow in the grass
selected her own society
then shut the door—the nobody who wouldn’t
stop for death and asked if you were one too.
Wren’s footprints on the backs of bills
and envelopes—copied out—folded—
bound into fascicles.
We were told she loved the children
of the town—let down baskets
of gingerbread on a rope from her bedroom window
facing Main Street and the Congregational Church—
When we moved out of town
I passed her house twice a day
going down and up Pelham Hill.
