by Cheryl Torsney
A two-headed kitten floats in formaldehyde
in a mason jar at the Old Mill Museum,
in Mill Creek Park,
in Youngstown, Ohio,
a city of hearths not yet rusty,
homegrown like the gowns of steel money
at the Mahoning Valley Historical Society,
all lace, high necks, and deep silken folds.
Skipping across the scuffed floors, enchanted
and frightened by the jar, its cloudy contents,
seeking comfort in the sibilance of air and water
that once turned the millstones,
scouting the cliffs we were forbidden to climb,
at Lanterman’s Mill,
we plotted our escape.
After peanut butter or baloney on Wonder Bread
or Schwebel’s, Happy the Clown’s favorite,
carrot and celery sticks, an apple or nectarine,
a Twinkie for dessert,
we played Red Rover and Who Stole the Cookie,
then gathered limbs, rotting stumps,
cracking the fingers off the branches into kindling.
One perfect stick, straight and green,
became the prized epée.
We’d strip the bark, gray on the outside,
vanilla closer to the muscle,
bits of sap sticking to our fingers,
and spear marshmallows,
white as an egg, gummy as its white,
gelatinous and airy, all at once,
awaiting the perfect flame.
Youngstown, Ohio, made Cheryl Torsney. Just ask her. If she ever begins a question with “Do you know where (fill in the blank) is originally from?” the answer is always “Youngstown, Ohio, the Center of the Universe.” Both sets of her grandparents immigrated in the first decades of the 20th century, and Cheryl, like her mother, grew up on the North Side, where she loved sledding and skating in Crandall Park, playing street football, swimming at the JCC, and hanging out in the North Side Library, where her love of reading was nurtured. She believes that she owes her long career as an English professor and academic administrator at universities in nine states and two foreign countries to her beloved Youngstown.