Beneath the mimosa tree,
my father rubs wax
into the curves of his sedan.
The ink of his tattoos, gray as a bad tooth.

My brother and I question
our G.I. Joes with a soldering iron
in the cinder block basement.
Upstairs my mother cleans and cleans.
The plastic men aren't talking.
They were raised to be like my father.

One Sunday we ripped every picture
of the nude women out of his magazines,
sorted them on the oval rugs by hair color.
My mother never came out of her room.
My father's sudden boots on the landing,
his shadow pushed down the stairs before him.

Everywhere we gathered up paper,
armloads of breasts, white thighs, pubic hair.
My father was still as the summer air.
Whole minutes we thought we would die,
the tattoo twitching on his arm.
We counted switches, backhands and belts.

Upstairs my mother coughed and coughed.
He made us throw the women in the furnace.
They turned away from us,
black curls dancing in the air.

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No books or chapbooks yet. I keep meaning to get a manuscript together, but I haven't got much beyond some decent titles. I've been nominated for two Pushcart prizes and, in the last two years, I've had over a hundred poems taken by journals including Rattle, Folio, Prairie Schooner, 5 AM and Diner. I love the work of Charles Simic, Louise Gluck and Russell Edson.
 

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autumn 2006 | kaleidowhirl