Dad's glasses are on a Newsweek on the coffee table. Where my feet go when I am visiting. He is somewhere behind the bedroom door. My mother is on the couch. The tomatoes are all sliced. Such a strange displacement. I am four again.
She doesn't know what to do. She never knows what to do. I put my arm around her because she is amazing. I tell her that. Right now, I'm telling her that. But then, I believe we're beautiful when we're vulnerable. And her cheekbones have softened with tears…
halo of flame
is another, sudden wall. Outside the barn's
now lit follicle, you are face down
as if you had fallen without instruction.
A patrolman approaches. I pull a seam of sod underneath
the picnic table and hide the stash I was given. All of the milled
wood is rotten. The boardwalk is dark and spongy.
Panic-lodger, flush in the rafters. I didn't realize
I had been watched so well. The faces
my mother used to make
down at me…