A Poem: Rogers Park

In the closed halls and small doorways of Chicago we had a child, and the Mejovics came and Mr. Liška gave me five crisp dollars counted into my hand. This is the little whip he said pointing to his own garden, a collection of delicate fruit invading signposts out to Cicero. How would I know this fruit if I had not raised it from the root itself, he said. Apricot trees lined the chain link, espalier clutched brown brick higher than the power lines. This is my city, I thought, and the baby cried on the back porch like a stray cat. The misses made sweet flower tea but spoke no English. She held my hands together in one wide palm and patted my arm, as if she were introducing me to myself at long last, as if my young life might come together in one wordless meeting.