Mother is sucking on limes, and
Father consoles an old widow
On a war no one remembers anymore.
I eat a prune filled with blue cheese,
while boys run through the room,
Skidding on Oriental rugs.
The house is full and they are charged
With electricity; cartoon jolts break
Outside the picture window.
Yellow haired little girls tiptoe beneath us,
holding their crotches and pointing to the sky.
It’s one of those storms you think you want.
You hover too long in the yard, free
Of davenport, you fingerlink into a Cyclone
Fence from your youth, made in Decatur.
But soon old ladies push to the door, and
Children are called in, shoes flashing.
No one is laughing anymore.
I don’t know why we leave then,
In the darkest thick of rain.
We run, we run through small lakes
And our car sails through a river
Like a small ship, made for this.
Islands of dead sedans pass us by.
There is that strange feeling of regret.
When we make it home, we take
Tequila from porcelain white mugs.
The sky has quieted a little, right?
Only the wall behind the toilet
Has softened. Mother comes in:
Silver-haired, alive. Father is
In the morning, Sirens hatch.
Sandy ridges harass the
Surface of the world.
Like a lover in the night,
No one speaks of it again.
They say no body was found.
There is no water, either;
The arroyos have already baked dry.
Here is the desert: untouched, unyielding;
It’s low, but if you listen,The normal scream of sun.