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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.

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
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