2 respostes a “Carpetovetònics a la fluixa

  1. On the plywood over the bay window, we spray paint taunts at Hurricane Isabel.
    Cow her into a tropical storm.

    Her moon tide, though, carries your beach chair away.

    Sea glass and Springsteen.

    The beached whale, the silent walk home.

    The grill that doesn’t start on the Fourth of July.

    The woman at the drug store you hit on who isn’t Mom.

    The renters blocking the drive.

    The string of my sweatshirt I gnaw on.

    Morning sun over Wauwinet.

    The red ladle over the pan.

    Your wrist, the perfect cant.

    You leave for the 8:20 to Hyannis with one commandment.

    Get the batter off the ladle while it’s wet.

    The ladle’s left in the sink.

    Mom lets it soak.

    Leave it, she says.

    You go away, and we come home.

    And what’s left of you.

    It loosens.

    And the water carries it away. 


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