The Summer American

New Jersey always had

A rustic smell about it

One good whiff of my cousin’s 

House 

Soothed me every time

My family slept in their vacant rooms

While our Brooklyn apartment fermented

From the heat

& crawled with roaches

Their house, with summer Mosquitoes

"Close the door or they'll come in!"

My cousin yelled from the pantry

I still got bitten

No hands were safer than Mama’s at night

Cushioning me between Papa’s molded back

Pressing against mine 

When I was little,

I would crunch in between

Their sleepless bodies 

Watching the fade-away neon stars

Fall off the ceiling

It felt like the closest thing to luxury

The New Jersey highway hopped

Through the loops of the passing night

ABBA played in the background

While I sang along in broken English

Laughing at Papa's accent

We always drove south for

The summer

& would park out on the grass

Near a lawn with clumsy chairs

The fireworks fired into the distance

It felt like the closest thing to being American

I was touched by my dad's face  

When the fireworks reflected 

In his eyes

An explosion of cultures

He forgot to be a part of

& here I was,

Half-breed, half-American

In my parents’ arms

And back home in Brooklyn

In our cramped apartment