1 My grandmother praised the deep silence of winter: drug deals forced indoors.
2 No summer drive-bys or innocent neighbors lost to dull black semis.
3 We live on a block of ten row houses, can hear every goddamn sound.
4 Eight in the morning. My boots should crunch snow instead of pink topped crack vials.
5 Hey, yo, curly top! You gotta sister? Bet she’ll gimme some fine trim.
6 Grandma prays for me to fail the ghetto before puberty begins.
7 Damon approaches me. Asks if I want to make a large roll of cash.
8 Christmas Eve. Best friend shot dead. Closed casket. Barely a face left on him.
9 Morning, purple sky. Two drug dealers escort Mom to the train station.
10 Damon slams me up against a brick wall. Whispers he likes boys my size.
11 Boy, you betta get your hide home. Your Grandmama worried sick ‘bout you.
12
Grandma delivers plates of ackee and codfish to every drug house.
13 Spark of a fired gun in cold night air. Damon holds my trembling right hand.
14 Grandpa spends every winter with his lover in Providencia.
15 Neighbors wonder why we’ve never been robbed, even though Grandpa’s not here.
16 Undercover cop busts Damon. Twenty to life, that’s the word at church.
17 She dreams he takes his woman to secret islands deep beneath the sea.
18 Grandma holds a lunch. Tells neighbors to befriend those kids they fear the most.
19 The blare of sirens, helicopter high above. Sounds I heard all night.
Sean Forbes
Sean Frederick Forbes is an adjunct professor in English and creative writing at the University of Connecticut. His poems have appeared in Crab Orchard Review and Long River Review. He lives in Thompson, Connecticut.