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New
Parents
Fresno in August. Asphalt melting.
Heat waves rising. The swamp-
cooler dripping.
Fat
flies
thump the glass – out, get out
and then they want in.
From
the living room dark
he stares out at wind clawing leaves
across the yard, into the street.
Suitcase
packed with all he needs –
folded shorts, flowery shirt
and comic books – he's ready
to meet his new parents,
Mother
Odd, Father Even,
smoke spewing from the depths of their foundry
like
bricked-in Fresno.
*
With
coon claws and cheshire smiles
they'll stroke him to sleep,
then
slice deep into his heart
worn down already, pound his dreams
like
tattered flags, pound the red-
veigned gall, pound and cut and pound
till they get to his birth-anger,
lay
a wreath for that wrath.
Then
they'll stitch him tight,
fix a sail over the arc of ribs,
a
small raft of one boy,
face soft as hammered bronze.
*
When
he steps through the foundry doors
let earth be hard, hands
firm.
Mother
Odd, Father Even,
you who make him new
again –
Let
the world flow smoothly past.
Let dust bloom where he steps.
Let his comic book version of tomorrow
be
pure as his flowery shirt, pure
as every second he stares out
at bright empty space, sure it all ends
with truth and justice.
Don't
tell him
at eight-years-old
he's leaving love behind.
*
When
the cab arrives,
bright yellow this time,
she'll
come, walk him out, tears gleaming
on the soft edge of her cheek.
Never
again love this large.
The
gap-toothed driver
smiles, opens the door, his leather seat
scalding the boy's fist
as he turns, looks one last time:
pines
along the esplanade,
wide lawn,
green porch,
her face
in
shimmering waves of heat.
Pound
him there.
Keeping
the Monsters Moving
Above our garage a rooster,
a black squeaky weather vane,
would point each day to where that father
had gone in his old spattered Cadillac
to paint houses, tar roofs.
He
came back one night with Dan,
a hired hand: quiet, well-mannered
but sneaky about his drinking. Sanding the dresser
he did the Mash, he did the Monster
Mash. Hip cocked, feet shuffling,
sweat running down his dust-
caked cheeks, he did the dance
that got the monsters moving,
singing
the words outloud
as if he hadn't heard me come from school
with my bag of plastic army men,
spread the twirling bazookas,
the marksmen dancing with jeeps
over drums of pitch, piled tarps,
the wobbly workbench with stacked brushes,
cans of putty and Dutch Boy paints.
He
left one night on a drunk
and that father came back with Wheelin'
& Dealin' Bob, bottle in his pocket,
singing John McGrew was a fucking fool,
fucked all the teachers on the first day of school . .
. .
A joke at first, his laughter
filling the garage, but soon a dull
repetition, a vulgar reminder
to stay away.
Still
that word had power.
He kept trying to get me to say it.
I remember finally standing
on a pile of tarps,
lip stuck on the first consonant,
feeling like the Dutch Boy
atop his ladder, that bright word
in the swath of my paintbrush, and even more
like the overalls dangling from a nail –
flayed skin of a beast
still roaming the dark garage –
f
. . . f-f, I stuttered,
Bob laughing, coaxing me on,
me and my army guys in a stream of light,
black rooster squeaking, turning
toward impending weather.
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