Cynthia Atkins
On the Day Sidney Died
I was doing long division on a grocery list,
when my schoolgirl eyes closed for good.
My heart, stopped, clenched like a crisp rose
into my fist. My first love parted to
the cutting room floor. But it was Lulu,
a miniskirt, purple eyeshadow, black eyelashes
like thread that stretched to another
wide-eyed girl’s town—
Singing on key, she let me know it was okay
to love another human, one with skin dark
as a coffee bean. Teacher’s pet, I was a rough cut,
awkward at 10. Making xerox copies
in the faculty lounge, I thought
of Sidney’s dimples in front
of his class. I wore plaid knee socks.
I had bruised knees. In 1972, we had a maid, Irma.
She dusted the banisters, the dog barked at her.
She came off the train from Racine,
and that was my context for blackness.
Sitting in the dark theater, To Sir with Love,
with Lulu, so cute, so English, a sexy troubadour
of this complex world. I wanted to be her,
with her Brit accent and her city edge.
I wanted a miniskirt, an orange raincoat,
a thick belt, & crinkly white go-go boots—
I wanted to taste life. From the suburbs,
I watched Sir’s gaze—a gate, a portal out of lily-white
living rooms. I saw his soul, his crisp buttoned shirt,
his moral compass. I longed to kiss his lips.
He spoke to our better angels—
No, it couldn’t have been just an act.
O Bank, I Miss Your Privacy Questions
Who was my favorite aunt?—No blinking, Aunt Adele, not by blood,
but she had the best candy, those orange marshmallow peanuts, M&M’s.
I wasn’t afraid of her; like I was my own mother. My deepest secrets,
I would have told her. My first address: Ridgewood Drive, where I left
my bike out too long and the bad boys stripped it bare.
I can’t deposit these memories anywhere else, the reaper has turned
the lights out. The last phone booth was junked in T-Town.
The real brick and mortar bank was on the corner of Main
and Central, when we drove up, my mother’s silky tanned arm
rolled down the window, depositing the sealed envelope
in that electric mouth. My first dog: That would be Gigi,
our Cocker Spaniel. The bad boys next door put her
in the moving clothes dryer, her nose and eyes spinning.
She yelped and I saw the measure of true hate, cruelty.
How dare you ask—about my first kiss?—Okay, if you must,
That would be Kenny G, no not that one, the one with
the buck teeth, we were ten. The saliva between us
tasted like old gum. My favorite nursery rhyme,
Little Sally Cinders, “Her mother came and caught her
and whipped her little daughter for spoiling her nice
new clothes.” First injury?—I fell off my bike, I had a cast.
My friends wrote on it in all different colored pens, and
different hands, and I could tell which was which
by the loops and exclamations. I could tell the things that mattered.
O Bank, you’ve gotten so cold, so removed, so full of numbers
digits, and anonymous tips. Where has all the intimacy gone
in this world?—I can’t even count on the bank to tell me who I am.
Cynthia Atkins (she/ her) is the author of Psyche’s Weathers, In The Event of Full Disclosure (CW Books), and Still-Life With God (Saint Julian Press, 2020), and a collaborative chapbook from Harbor Editions, 2022. Her work has appeared in many journals, including the Alaska Quarterly Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, BOMB, Cider Press Review, Diode, Green Mountains Review, Indianapolis Review, Los Angeles Review, Rust + Moth, North American Review, Permafrost, SWWIM, Thrush, Tinderbox, and Verse Daily. Formerly, Atkins worked as the assistant director for the Poetry Society of America and has taught English and creative writing, most recently at Blue Ridge Community College. She is an Interviews Editor for American Micro Reviews and Interviews. She earned her MFA from Columbia University and has earned fellowships and prizes from Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, The Writer’s Voice, and Writers@Work. Atkins lives on the Maury River of Rockbridge County, Virginia, with artist Phillip Welch and their family. More work and info at: www.cynthiaatkins.com.