Jumping Cars

My house is on The main thoroughfare Where cars fly by at 30— 40— 50 miles per hour And my mother prohibited us to cross the street A street, she said, would spell out certain death For her only daughters. We never played in the front yard, Except to draw sidewalk chalk bodies on the tan of the driveway —childhood crime scenes. We used to play tennis— Or what tried to be tennis With just a wiffleball and Two badminton racquets Across the sidewalk cracks In the side yard But once—just once, the ball Rolled away from us into the Forbidden street Where cars fly by at 30— 40— 50 miles per hour. My sister just turned seven and ran After the white ball, carried by wind And the lightness of swiss cheese holes. But when she reached the curb she stopped Dead in her tracks, unable to cross the invisible line Between playful life and certain death. But my sister was much braver than I and Took a moment to find our false tennis ball Rolling down the avenue. I screamed. She ran, reached down, and grabbed the ball from the road. And skipped back without a scratch. After that, we rarely played tennis. Too much danger. Too much risk. But we continued to draw our bodies Outlined on the sidewalk, certain death coming one way or another.