45 Saturday holiday weekend with the family, July 2
Morning
My breasts fold over and
toes curl under
the peonies weep blush
Charlotte is regal in tangled
hair and a forest green
bathrobe meant for her brother
(Julie in retreat)
She walks with lion mane,
a little duck footed
and creeps back up stairs
There’s a haze in the
kitchen and a lump on
my ankle
I’ve already started in on
my coffee and he offers me toast
If we don’t feed them now,
they’ll be hungry later
Slatted light in the shape of
a key – or a state –
maybe Wyoming
I wear slippers in summer
There’s this risk of going maudlin
Remains of crust on a plate
She instructs him that
Milk is not breakfast
But he doesn’t want any strawberries
I dry a black fork labeled Wendy’s
toss it in the bin
Descent into cartoons
I catch my breath and
Try
not to think about
schedules
Garlic wafts up
When I scrub the cutting board
Afternoon: At Island Lake Beach
Afraid of what appears
Before I open
The book, click the pen
Better to stop before it starts
She peels a blow pop and he drops a lid in the sand
Disaster sits next to us,
But they know how to swim
I’ll never sleep again
My ankle is swollen
I just stepped out, a little
Before my birthday
3 months and swollen ever since
I feasted on goldfish
and she ran off with the cheese crackers
he shows me mad eyes
bitten from a pretzel
This is how I feel about
You (?)
I think it’s a heart
Mad eyes are because
I told him not to
borrow a bucket
mad eyes because his
sister has the cheez-its
He pours orange water into the sand hole
A repurposed Gatorade bottle
is nothing like a bucket
Women with lumps of
worlds on bellies
the things you carry
with you
I can see you
And I hide mine in
my lap and beneath pleats – optical
illusion sheath
It’s not all bad but I have
a headache
The cheez-its return
and the sun hides
and flares again
and I sit quiet in judgment and wonder
what it is to have a
good time
He crouches, a spider
Look’a this, Mom, it’s the
tiniest spider!
Charlotte opens and joyful
teeth spill out
I read Bianca Stone to her
and it makes no sense, like clouds
It’s 315 in the afternoon
I imagine, my lips are on the upside down T
before Rick pulls on his shirt
the scar on his belly
I keep my distance in public
He thinks his gut is growing
Later I will kiss it in his sleep
Night
I’ll hang myself
up on a shelf
firecrackers in
advance
Drunken elegies
The trees are a castle
out
There, from light into warmth
They snore on the floor
all I can hear is
night music
Trucks and tailpipes
smooth like gold
a waiting siren
Chirping birds – the sounds
she plays, and her brother
can’t sleep without anymore
We might be at war
each time I hear a blast
a glow not a whisper
I’m always first to bed
he’ll drag himself
bleary through morning
Because he’s tossed the laundry into the dryer
and it spins until
midnight
I’m no tiny
lover to adorn with
Roses and keep on standby
We go head to head
and the Rub is in
the Dance
He bristles at the suggestion
that Love became a fight
Because he’s peaceful,
you know?
A peaceful guy. Anyway.