What I Remember About Gena

by Marina J. Neary


Dusty feet in leather sandals —
How I feared they would crush me
Like a box of cigarettes!

I played on the floor with colored buttons,
While she walked in and out,
Swinging and slamming the door,
In a cloud of Irish rock and recently smoked weed,
Escorted by greasy-haired boys,
Among which was my father.

On New Year’s Eve,
Crowned with a paper tiara,
I sampled beer from different cans,
Until I vomited under the table.

Without a word, Gena pulled me up by the ear,
And the boys showered me with confetti.


Copyright © 2010 by Marina J. Neary

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