in ’97 superbowl denim even though “we lost that one,” quote dad,
pondering a stuffed fridge at midnight
I am happy to find him brother.
he invites me to toast
(glorious with honey embedded in its grains)
and we jam.
I drop a plate
(ceramic ploop in the dog-bowl)
he smear-shushes a giggle too late.
mom erupts: sagged by her own anger:
(her father is dying, her father is dying)
I suppose that is my grandpa.
(in the worst way, of confusion.)
how we must appear to her:
two overweight adults laughing over jam sieged by dishes.
mom's an austere ice-skater w/ no spectators
risking ankles whilst we gremlin the hockey stands and
openmouth chew chew chew
moviebutter popcorn and jam.
she trembles: she accepts
always the unfair time and what must be done
and never has to check. inevitable
midnight fight.
she claims: murder if I sleep outside. “sleep under a hammer.”
I sleep outside and outside
trucks on the highway bellow and mourn
to eachother, whales in the deep.
(her father is dying)
(her shoulder accepts pillow as she accepts
snoring husband and nightmares of smothering water)
cdzhouse 