By Ken Holland
When Stella D’oro Ruled the Airwaves
Used to be we’d drive south on the Major Deegan
Drive south on a Saturday towards the George Washington Bridge
The Deegan cutting through the Bronx heading south
And on a Saturday there’d come the scent well before the source
The sweet liqueur of it, the anisette, the sugar, the air
Turned confectionary, cutting through a Bronx that had
Taken on the air of seduction, whose breath was that of
Biscotti, the warmth of it even in winter, sliding south
On the Major Deegan, the scent glossing our lips like
Spun syrup, even in winter the heat it brought to our eyes,
How we pulled deep the confection of the Bronx, how deeply
We pulled as we passed south of the factory, and held
That depth inside our lungs as we passed away from its source
And the bridge broke into the sky above the Hudson,
And we breathed in anticipation of riding its heights
As the Hudson brokered its way to wider waters
Our childhood floating atop its current, the scent of the river
Bearing us away, bearing us to where the air was spun too thin,
Air too thin to lift aloft the liquory dreams of the winter’s wintery day.
On Whatever Day in Whatever Summer of Nineteen Sixty Something
My father is doing a hula dance
The jittery crackling patina of celluloid
His arms like wings in fluttery waves
Was there music behind the silence?
Was my mother singing?
A hand rises into the camera’s field of view
Mine or my brother’s
We’re less than a cameo appearance to my father’s rare abandon
Behind him, smoke from a charcoal grill
Gray patties of meat in a monochrome world
On a day like no other day he lived
At a cottage in the Catskills
Burgers burning a hole through the frame of his memory
Ken Holland has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and has work widely published in such journals as Rattle, Tulane Review, Southwest Review, North Dakota Quarterly, The MacGuffin, and Tar River, as well as a number of anthologies. He lives in the mid-Hudson Valley of New York. www.kenhollandpoet.com