21inspired by someone’s family portrait
Mom hated dad’s black socks but he wouldn’t take them off.
He was nearly there by now.
Nearly there and, by that, completely gone, I mean.
He never touched her anymore-
probably couldn’t feel her four fingers
one bit
on his shoulder for the split second
the flashbulb lit us up-
us in our black sea-
living, fading
islands.
Probably didn’t notice his Morning Walk pleading
at his feet for him to come home for once
when they hung up the leash.
He probably hadn’t a clue
I’d only stood still for mom’s sake that day.
Her lips wore thin with her dresses
and her mother bones
became wires
and Dad-
he didn’t know anyway.
Dinners flew together with white whips of flour
and mean mother muscles stewing away at peeled potatoes
stewing away
while dad wasted all day in his liquor.
The plates crashed a few times before the table was set
when her china hands gave way-
we still swear
to swear
we never saw the tears on the blue shatterings.
We still swear
we never saw the creases deepen in her smile
where smiles never crease.
(When our boy eyes weren’t watching her fill and flute pies
just pale skin rung her finger
and her promise lie in dribbles by the sink,
so Grandma’s crust recipe
didn’t cake itself under the stone.)
If only Grandma would have known.
The paper voice that flew under our doors
in the morning
always brought coffee upon it’s shrill platter-
none for us,
though we hadn’t grown to mind
just yet.
The nails and timbre voice grew silent-
became more Oak than Willow.
It’s branches filled with smoke on occasion
but every hit I got that season,
every bat on destined ball,
made the birds cloud the singing sky in celebration and
I began to see them flying
before I’d even swung.
Mom still hated dad’s black socks
especially with his white shorts.
She’d still set out his very own long fork by his
yellow glass:
mostly orange juice
plus three cubes
before breakfast
and white socks
on his chair
before church
as a hint.
I use to hit Sam on his bruised shoulders
because he wouldn’t tell me what he’d heard
Timber telling Paper
while I was brushing my teeth
or labeling the planets
or sleeping
or
staring at my ceiling
lit by full moons
or
half moons
or
no moon at all.
