Juncture
Paper napkins over water
glasses, scarf-draped lamp
hey presto flourish, quick
wrist-reveal: a cage of birds
that start to sing the sky
to sunrise, goldfish in a bowl.
The plot twists, ultimately turns
like the worm—saw it coming
said with dry satisfaction
of the detective show, mystery
novel. Puzzle piece snicking
into place. Revelation.
Pale horse in dawn light.
Rider in shadow, lost.
Fields show themselves,
stubble-jawed, scratchy
morning breath of fog,
stumbling punch-drunk day.
Inheritance
My father made us breakfast each weekday morning.
Cereal pre-poured into bowls the night before, paper
napkins atop. He’d scowl if they fluttered off on a gust
as one of us hurried past. Sugared loops with milk,
and soft-boiled eggs that he scooped into blue melmac
mugs for us. One slice of toast with jam, orange juice
poured into small glasses, their heart and diamond patterns
faded from red to a peachy pink. Our meals regimented,
the way he wanted us to be. Wanted our mother to be.
A gruff for chrissake if I loaded the dishwasher wrong,
or my sister left a drawer in disarray, rolls of saran, tinfoil
and wax paper jumbled, edges flapping and ragged.
Do I bog down in details, let the reels of a childhood,
of a parent’s legacy unspool? I don’t need a memory
palace, no pat mnemonic, to situate my father’s pride
in responsibility, his rags-to-business-suit story, his tall
stance in topcoat, that brown fedora with a pinch-front
crown. The military made him, gave him his upright
bearing. Spine always held straight thanks to 5BX Plan
exercises each day. At the lake, he’d float board-rigid
on water, sporting hat and sunglasses. Or stretch out
full length on my quilt alongside small me, cross ankles
as he read a bedtime story. Later, he built basement rooms
for my sister and me. My space, a refuge where I sank
into the chaos and comfort of books. I would read past
sleep time, bedside lamp burning. Overhead, floorboards
creaked. I heard Dad’s noctambulant pacings, hard soles
of his leather slippers slapping on lino, on hardwood
as he turned off lights, lowered the thermostat, readied
the kitchen for morning. The percussion of his movements
alerted me to put my hand on my own lamp’s chain,
ready to switch it off when his tread approached the top
of the basement stairs where he might see its glow.
If I mistimed or, lost to reading, forgot to listen, his voice
would ring out, deep and cross: lights out! When footsteps
finally passed above me, along the upstairs hallway
to my parents’ room, then halted, I’d snake out an arm,
turn my light back on. Fingers chilled, coverlet to chin,
I would hold the book, circumventing his control, and read
until my eyes ached. In my teens, I felt the chafe of rules
even more, saw him as inflexible, mean. Home from party
or pub, I’d slink by the chalk board posted for us to record
the time of our return. And from the TV room’s open
door, he’d call me in to where he sat, broadside me
with questions. My traitorous dog sniffing at my breath.
And, caught out but aggrieved, I squared shoulders, set
my jaw like his. He had no heirlooms to leave me, but
my stance now echoes his. Softened, I hope, enough to bend.
Airplane
A man wants an airplane to like him; he brings it things. It hums and thrums, he thinks,
with pleasure at his offerings, useless as they are—toffee, feather boas, a coffee table. He tries all the endearments he can think of: liebchen, petit chou, dah-ling. But the plane doesn’t hear him over the jet whine. It loves the sky, it yearns for wing-room, for clouds.
It doesn’t have space for liking, that watered-down emotion. It loves, it loves.
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