where the writers are
Long Island Summer


We went to Long Island

Ocean sound is cool and our mothers love is enveloping us

Fisherman’s Warf and we’re young

Fisherman’s Warf and you’re still young and beautiful

Order anything you like.

A Shirley temple and a fruit salad.

A burger, fries and a coke.

I’m playing with the spoons, forks and knives.

I’m drawing with crayons on the paper tablecloth and paper place mat with a map of

Long Island on it.

Long Island so breezy and young.

My smile so breezy and young.

Your love and mothering is so breezy and young.

Those glasses on the table are circa 1975.

You take your children out to lunch.

You let them order whatever they want.

You are the pinnacle of our lives.

The smell of moth balls in the old Long Island summer house.

The Jesus picture with eyes that move.

That meat slicer that was her father’s.

The fireflies outside on an August night.

Cool autumn leaves rustle in the old bard where her father kept a 1950’s Chevy.

The darkness of the dilapidated house.

The antiques of Sunday in New Suffolk.

Bacon and eggs of early summer.

Brush your teeth and wash your face.

Don’t forget to set the alarm.

She’s scared too but she won’t show it.

You’re the great mother of us all.

Swim where I can see you she said to me.

Swim where I can see you.

Your very being is the essence of the maternal, a symbol of vitality and music.

Her voice is a laugh is a golden ray of darkness.

Her voice saying I can order anything I want is an echo, a flower, a skyscraper,

a flute and a bird.