The Corner of Commodore and Silver Spring

Anthony DiPietro

before this was a wendy’s, it was ames, 
before that, zares, where my grandma alice, 

called nana, sold bras four afternoons a week
while her kids made supper. she could almost 

see her house from here. we were close
when she was alive. for years, like a wife, 

she cooked my evening meals and asked me what
I’d like to eat tomorrow. some saturdays 

she’d say, “I don’t know, d’you feel like going
down to wendy’s and get us a burger and fries?” 

and once when the line was long I watched
a boy and his father unwrap a toy 

though a matted-fur teddy bear already traveled
everywhere they went. they looked at each other 

and looked alike down to the length
of their blond eyelashes, and though I know 

it’s impossible, my nipples ached. ached
for a child. the night my brother’s son was born 

I was drunk on dominican rum, brugal with gold
netting made to resemble the stockings of high-priced 

whores, according to my friend whose gift it was. 
he said drinking it would make me want to make 

love all night. he was absolutely right. but why
would I want to have a child? someone to tell 

these stories to? and if he looks like me, does it mean
I will live past the span of life I’m given? 


Anthony DiPietro is a gay Rhode Island native who worked for 12 years in community-based organizations that addressed issues such as violence, abuse, and income inequality. In 2016, he moved to New York to join Stony Brook University as a candidate for a creative writing MFA and now teaches undergraduate courses. A graduate of Brown University with honors in creative writing, his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, Anomaly, Assaracus, The Good Men Project, Helen, Rogue Agent, The Southampton Review, Talking River, and Welter. His website is