In late winter of 1960
I went with my little brother 
to stay with (Grand) Ma and Aunty
at the Thomas Jefferson Apartments.
We both had the mumps
and were being isolated
from our baby sisters, we slept
head-to-toe on the raggedy couch
and Ma fed us chicken broth,
sometimes it was so hard to swallow
she gave us drops of the paregoric
Dad had left with her.

The drag of those four days
was interrupted by a snow storm,
it was so cold that salt wouldn’t melt
the ice off the sidewalk. We were stuck,
my brother was crying to go home,
Ma made me say the rosary with her,
Aunty was wringing her hands.
I wished I was with my older brothers
sledding on our snow packed street.

I covered the kitchen table
with my blanket to make a private cave
where I could look at the Life Magazine
I snuck out of Dad’s pile in our living room
and hid in the book bag with my Hardy Boys.
I was eleven and intrested
in Marilyn who was on the cover:
her deep cut black sequined dress,
her back to the front,
her head turned to the left,
her heels kicked up to the level of her butt,
her soles whiter than her exposed spine,
whiter than her blondie hair,
whiter than the snow outside

I didn’t know why this view of her behind
was so exciting.  Why did I have to hide
to look at it? The small kitchen was hot,
I seemed to be spinning across a great expanse
of pure white snow.
Then, there I was, back under the table.
I could hear Ma praying, Aunty fussing,
little brother slightly snoring.  I wanted
to grab Marilyn, go outside and
slide with her under the highest drift
behind the Thomas Jefferson Apartments.