Kathryn Petruccelli – poet, writer, teacher, performer

​Patti and I played together every day. Like on
the rusted metal swing set in my backyard–
the bench swing with its two seats facing each other,
where we played “subway,” though neither of us
had ever been on one. We were five, six maybe.
Long Island kids who watched too much TV, heard
our parents talk about the city. We played close
to the Meltzers’ fence, in case Mrs. Meltzer was outside
and had lollipops. We played around the wood pile
after the big oak came down. I don’t remember a tree
missing. In those days they seemed to be everywhere,
huge, hugging us in, guardians. Until the time
Patti wanted to take home the odd piece of log
we both thought looked like a gun. I said no. It was mine;
I’d learned already about possession. About what
held currency beyond the trees. It was the mid-70s,
we were cradled in a valley between–the Kennedys
were dead, Martin, Malcolm. But up the other side
John Lennon and Marvin Gaye still had a few years left
to imagine what was going on. Patti asked again.
I said no again. We fought about it; she rushed away
in tears. I held the gun in my hand, closed one eye,
aimed it at her back as she ran.

Jet Fuel Review, May 2026