Expressive Domain

Slippery Fish

My eyelids instinctively squinted
and I had to turn my head
away from him
as if the saltiness
of the sardines
he was eating
could find a way
to sting my eyes.

He just laughed
as he dangled
the slippery fish
in front of my pinched nose
before opening his mouth,
dropping it in
and moaning
with an ecstasy
that a child
shouldn’t know.

Perhaps his intention
was a father’s expectation
that I would grow
tough enough
to cope with anything
and anybody.

If I had been a smarter child
I would have run
from his haunting laughter
that slithered its way
into my dreams.

But my tears were preserved
like salty brine,
and forty years later
as they begin to fall,
I smell the fish
and hear the cutting metal
of his opening can.

Within An Inch of Your Life

Any six-year-old can tell you
that time is an elusive creature
who slips and slides around you,
a mercury edged chameleon.

Morning comes with parental directives
that pulls you from bed
with reminders of the bus
and time is measured in the smoke of toast.

At school the teacher’s explanations
clutter your thinking
and mistakes happen
and time is measured in eraser crumbs.

And recess allows the freedom of spirit
and you run and scream
while friends play kickball
and time is measured in innings.

Boredom comes in the afternoon
and you pick off fur fluffs
from your favorite stuffed animal
and time is measured in the bald spot.

It takes an eternity to for seven birthdays to come
and tomorrow holds the promise of presents,
but the chameleon is shape shifting once again
and time is measured in dreams.

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The water is crystal clear
so you can see the desires
of a hundred people
thrown in the wishing fountain.

Two dimes kiss with the promise of love
and huddle together for comfort
while reflecting quarters flash like cameras
and boast the cost of fame.

But my little penny slowly drifting down
settling small upon the bottom
is distorting my dreams in the waves
and I wish I hadn’t thrown it.

There Were 37

There was a small spider that I easily squished,
but then another large bulb shaped one
came crawling out of a hole in the wall.

I called for my daughter to squish it
but she just lightly poked it with a pencil
only making it angry enough to bare its teeth at us.

The odd thought for me is not really the spider
and what it might represent in my dream,
but I seem to know that we are in our home.

A place where I know to look for my broom,
and surprised to NOT find it where I know it should be
in this home where I have never lived.

How can my mind create images and memories so clear
that I can tell the color and feel of the cloth on the table
and count the coarse hairs on the back of a spider?

Mr. G

Mr. G waited patiently
on the shelf next to his twins
and he saw them lifted away
one by one until finally
he was the last
to go.

Then the little girl
from her stroller reached
her arms as far
as they could stretch
and yet she needed her mother
to lift him down
to her.

The two became inseparable
as they grew to be great friends
who played and loved and slept
through all the adventures
that a child needed
to know.

But one day Mr. G sat
forgotten on concrete wall
when the little girl needed
two hands to hold her cone
and then she began
to go.

Later, she cried inconsolably
and would find no replacement,
for who can take the place
of the dearest friend
to her.

Years have grown her to a woman
with her childhood pictures
close at hand
showing a little girl
holding tight to Mr. G
as if she had a psychic gift
to know:

Mr. G would go.

Hand Tools

I brace myself
when the first one comes
with knowledge
of more to come.

For they build in threes
my auntie says,
trouble and sorrow,
and death.

And family comes
to help construct a wall
holding me sturdy
through the blurring
of the days.

But then alone
when they thought
me strong,
my façade is broken,
softened by the touch
of my cat’s paw.