A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.
My dad was an inveterate theatergoer in the old country where theatre reigned supreme before the Soviets, under the Soviets, after the Soviets.
None speak of how the streets collide in coarse seams like scars, the fresh cobbles unable to level with the ones shaken from their mortar by uncountable seasons.
I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
I’d never heard of anyone having a second baby right after the first one, but everything was so strange in those early days of motherhood that I just acted on instinct.
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place
On the first day of our new life together, my husband realized that I was not interested in theoretical debate. He said it was okay by him and went out to get some pancake mix.
I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote
I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.
No matter how you try to ignore it, you look like him. You look like your father.
