Mom puts the plate
in front of me
but I am too hungry
for biscuits
to see her
as anything
but the bringer of food
the washer
the dryer
the back of the house
whether she smiles
as she pours
the coffee or gravy
or turns to cry
I never see her
wipe her hands
hang the towels
exhale with a sigh
too much on her plate
till lunch
I probably should not
have agreed to be a zombie
in my step-daughter’s movie
where home-made blood
was tossed on me
by the bucket full.
I have successfully washed
the blood off my clothes,
but on two separate shootings,
hoping for protection
in a back pocket of my jeans,
two innocent cell phones,
were killed
by drowning.
Zombie phones
don’t come back to life.
They die forever
doing Heavy Duty.
It’s okay to use two cans
and a lifeless string
to a call a friend
when you are young
and immortal,
but not so much
at 52.
Under my bedspread
thrown over a card table
with only room
for a pillow,
a blanket,
a box of crackers,
and me,
safety could still
squeeze in.
But I grew
and it became difficult
to keep my legs inside,
and so I stopped
hiding there.
I would go to Mom
who would hold me
and tell me
time and time again
that everything
would be alright,
and in my innocence,
I believed her.
Until sometime in adolescence
I came home from school
and discovered
my mother crying,
no place
to hide her tears.
I pulled my bedspread
off my bed,
climbed up next to her
and wrapped it around us
telling her it would be alright.
We were old enough
to know better.
She just continued to cry.
Even though nothing was more frightening,
there was no room
to shed my tears.
She is sock footed
in her pajamas
pulling a worn throw
over her shoulder
now curving
into the deepest
corner of the couch.
I take the deep breath
that she cannot
and reach into my arsenal
of aspirin,
and hot compresses,
thermometers,
chicken soup,
and cool wet rags
to lay upon her brow.
It is hard to watch my child cry,
her eyes pink and longing,
her fingers weak and airy,
a trail of tissues
in her slow wake.
She empties her eyes,
and only the arm of the couch
and I
are able to read the message
in the wet dots
she drops:
Fix me, Mom.
I sit next to her
my hand rubbing on her foot,
her eyes finally closing
in exhausted sleep.
We breathe.
My eyes closed
I slept beside you,
holding you,
loving you,
and waking today, you’re gone.
Someone stole my dreams.
“Clean your room already!”
she said for the thousandth time.
But six years said I deserved better
so I loaded my Radio Flyer with licorice and toys
and headed down the sidewalk.
The block was long but I was determined
to leave my chores behind.
Running away from everything
is a luxury that only children can afford
with a twenty-five cent allowance.
And I would have gotten all the way to Michigan
if only I had been allowed to cross the street.
It was a lazy summer day
with nothing to inspire a child
until Mom took me to the garden
and picked the hollyhocks.
With only her knowing fingers
she pinched off the opened flowers
and handed me the tiny buds
before going back inside.
I couldn’t see her vision
until flowers were flipped like skirts
and green removed from buds
left tiny eyes and upswept hair.
We filled a dish with water
and the flowers were transformed
into floating floral ladies
and imagination danced away.
There is no more our song
just pieces of love gone wrong.
Yet the broken glass of the disco ball
keeps on spinning its dancing light.
From ceiling to floor dappling shadows
transform my imperfections.
In time I’ll move from dark to light
wherever the music takes me.
But now all I want to do is dance
and learn the tune of my song.
Some days I kneel to the order of things
watering flowers and pulling weeds,
but deep furrows grow in my brow
and confusion chokes my life from me.
For if God is in the flowers
and the Devil’s in the weeds,
then where am I in the garden
when I can’t tell them apart?
Dew laden grass made her shoes glisten
in the early morning sun
but the berry bushes were stingy
so she had to travel on.
The forest branches were bending to and fro
with welcoming arms that beckon children
to those dark and silent spaces
hiding quietly between the trees.
But the wind was whistling a pleasant tone,
almost a song that left a happy feeling,
so she left her basket by the mossy glen
to chase a butterfly floating on the sound.
But the dark and silent spaces
hiding quietly between the trees
eat little girls for breakfast
when the berries are not ripe.
Much more than a solid path
directing me from place to place,
the sidewalk goes on and on
pieced tightly together
like the days we’ve lived.
Yet today, the sun’s heat
has evaporated the wet remembrances
of last night’s summer rain
turning my child’s chalk drawings
into unrecognizable colored streaks
upon the sidewalk.
The passers-by stop briefly
looking down on the cement
intrigued by the thought
of what might have been.
Then they walk on
stepping on all our dreams.
Driving south on highway 63,
just past Cable,
my car takes me past the bend
where trees bow their branches wide
in homage to the Namekagon,
and its tempting glistening corridor
pulls me to its waters.
In my mind’s instant wandering
I’m on a languid inner tube
floating down the river.
Dragging a stick behind me
like a paintbrush,
I draw swooping birds
that follow me as I linger
with my hair bobbing like seaweed
catching the current.
My toes are dangling
where minnows can circle them
and my fingertips filter the coolness
as I push away from rippled rocks
where anglers could tangle me,
small mouth, or northern.
I drift away from all the thoughts
that steer me in my car
because the river flows on a different path
than where I thought I’d travel.
My teacher has a sign hanging in our classroom:
No Bullies Allowed.
And she means it.
She won’t let anyone
call me names like Gap or Gumby
just because my front teeth are gone.
No Bullies Allowed.
But summer is here and my teacher is on vacation
so there is no one to stop Mom
from rubbing salt in my wound
with this taunting,
butter dripping,
golden ear of corn.
Bonfires on the beach
send their sparks flying
exciting the nighttime stars.
And their jealousy
reflecting on the sparkling water
is bringing the town to life.
The smelt are running
and if you own a net
you’re already in the water.
Your waders offer little protection
against cold possessive Superior
who is fighting to keep her fish.
Yet washtubs are filling
with tiny flopping silver
that you knife open upon the spot.
And their jealousy
brings the empty net fishermen
to your smoking charcoal grill.
Where the splashing of beer
catching fish and fishermen
is bringing the town to life.
The memory of beer batter frying
woke my tongue before the sun
and lured me to the kitchen
where Mom was slicing apples,
but my quick slice of toast was lacking.
No matter. I was going fishing.
I grabbed my gear and headed out
while the sun insisted louder than my mother
that a hat is necessary if I want to see
the fish swimming just under morning’s glare
while I dangle my toes off the end of the dock.
No matter. I was fishing.
The bait welcomed the chance to help me
as they danced their wiggly choose me dance,
and it was up to me to pick just the right one
that Big Bob wanted to nibble on today
but even after ten sure to tempt lures,
Big Bob wasn’t biting.
No matter. I was fishing.
The morning, without so much as a thank you,
slowly ate up my worms leaving me
with a defeated empty string line,
so I was heading home.
No matter. Mom was baking pies.
Some things are great in threes,
like 3 Stooges, 3 blind mice,
or 3 wise men.
You can run a 3 legged race,
ride a 3 wheeler,
or watch the 3 Ring Circus.
You can make a 3 point landing
or get 3 cheers before
3 strikes and you’re out.
But everyone knows
that 3’s a crowd.
so when teenage girls,
best friends forever
with the 3 faces of Eve,
pretend to be the 3 mustketeers,
you know that their world
is about to explode.
Grandma told her
more times than she could count
that she was special,
so special,
and soon everyone would see that.
So she expected nothing less
when she tried to get those foolish girls
to see her idea,
her special idea.
But all through the class
her friends wouldn’t listen
and kept changing the discussion
to some ridiculous thing,
or another.
Later she tells Grandma
what idiots, those ordinary girls are
who haven’t a clue
about what could be cool,
so trendy and cool.
Couldn’t they see?
Later her pillow absorbs no comfort
for she is too stubborn
to give up her tears,
her special tears.
Our bedroom had old hardwood floors
that hid a treasure right out in the open,
a painted rusty metal grate,
and through its slats you could overhear
everything a child wanted to know.
So when your parents were down below
playing cribbage with your cousin’s parents,
it took great skill to cover your mouth quickly.
Your shocked inhalations shouldn’t be heard
sending Dad’s cards flying down onto the table
and his feet to the stairs.
So we listened with the kind of intensity
that our teacher was hoping
could have been applied to science.
If only she knew
what we knew
from listening at the grate.