Julie Tepper Standig

Born in Brooklyn

but bred on the streets of Queens
in a compact square ranch house with mustard 
aluminum siding and a large white awning
that covered the patio out back. The first house
to have outdoor speakers.

I am from the weeping willow tree by the pool
and the birch trees that lined their way to the kitchen 
side door.

I am from minimal faith, free of obligation 
along with a dedicated line of dementia—Nellie, 
Helen and Evelyn—people who lost 
most of their memories but didn’t know it
and a grandmother who often requested: 
remember me. 

I come from a line of tailors, seamstresses
and furriers. I own their three sewing machines 
and yet cannot thread a bobbin. 

I am from patriotic parents who insisted I too
Stand up and salute no matter what.
Question little, follow doctor’s directions, 
marry later, but not too late to have a couple of kids.

Born in Brooklyn, I came from J&B (aka Jewish
Booze) with Sunday morning bagels.
From the long line of headstones at Cedar Park
Cemetery, the shared names, the secret suicides,
(they married into the family, so no worries),
and the No Exit sign at the corner of Block 5.

I am from the keepers of silver spoons 
and ceramic shoes, the inheritor of buttons,
a glass ibex, the champleve vase and cartons
and cartons of black and white photos 
that lie in rest, on metal shelves,
in the back room of the basement.

I am what’s left of all of them.