Mama’s intention was to have more children, maybe
at first just to
replace the baby boy who died, and then with a new
boy, the need for
a girl came to light. I’ve always wanted one of
each, she said, and then
I came along, A fast child wanting to pop out in
the backseat of the yellow
cab that Mama and I took to the hospital. And
Daddy, she told me later,
wasn’t in that cab, nor did he give us a ride in
his Silver Eagle, because he
was on the road, the driver of a big rig that I
have no recollection of, but
in my made-up story, I see it parked outside the
house and Mama climbing
a little ladder because the cab sat far off the
ground. Up and in she and her
big belly went and off to the hospital, Daddy honking that big
semi horn
all the way there. With an adventure like that, there was no need to start
life in the back of a cab. I wanted anyway, to make my mother happy, so I
waited.
Day Twelve.
The mountains
are bare, like they’ve forgotten
to dress this
morning, the flesh in a
high crease,
folding seductively, the waist
bends to
wrinkle and crease where
shade becomes
prominent, brush growing
in damp
areas.
First one brown hill, then
another devoid of trees
Waxed smooth each morning
Day Thirteen
Two Birds Fly, One Hits the Window
We are in a
wind a big blow knocking furniture
across the back
porch the sky gray-black the sound of a truck, a plane a freight train once when the wind hit 90 miles per hour is high and so the birds fly willy-nilly on gusting
currents meanwhile a solar wind blows down through
the atmosphere clocking our hearts at a
sensational speed their rhythm and our
minds race sleep evades us the rustling whistling wind alters
trajectory it is always ringing bells and busting
heads moving fast around corners I say birds sit tight your fellow has fallen
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