Our Date

My stepson spent

the afternoon in detention

for lying to a nun.

I told them my name means

pheasants in Italian, 

but no one believed me.

Half white, half Puerto Rican,

Italian last name, nappy hair,

said otherwise. 

At the perfect age of 10, 

my stepson and I

had a date one afternoon.

Determined to teach him to fly,

forget nuns, divorced parents,

over-protective mother,

or, just ride a bike.

A two-wheeler, banana seat,

shiny, chrome, bells, streamers.

He’d run alongside it

throw one leg far and wide

in time to find the peddle

on the other side.

I clutched the back of the seat

sent him off as far as I could.

Like my father did for me,

knowing spills and harm

would follow.

Years later,

a knot in  my heart, 

his dusty, tear-smeared face

lips quivering, telling me

of a quick ride to an Italian

neighborhood in Pelham Bay

where he was chased down

by taunts of 

You don’t belong here.

I tried to tell them my name

but no one listened.

I think of all I don’t know

about courage – how to build it,

pass it on, when to fight, to flee,

and when to leave your bike

behind, save your life,

find your way home.