Between 1963 and 1966
The air - swollen with the promise of sex. We made out in a phone booth as he
called home for a ride. Groped in the last row at the Holiday matinee. Did
more in the sweaty back seat of his father’s Ford. Or was it a Chevy? Thick,
soft lips (or were they thin and hard?) all over mine. He was tall. Short. His
hair: dark, curly. No, blond, straight. There was a rumble below my belly.
Nothing else happened.
Late October 1984
He raked only half of the forested front lawn before he quit, went inside to
watch football. Soon, family and friends would show up for the baby’s
christening. The deep pile of leaves remained.
April 17, 1978
The nurses caught and cradled the fetus. I folded my maternity clothes, stored
them in the guest room closet. Later, I watched new mothers at the mall hold
babies against their breasts like merit badges.
May 3 and 4, 1998
Dad talked about his nausea from chemo and the new experimental med, but I
half listened, pre-occupied. With what? The next call was from his wife, urging
me to hurry.
Each day, I cycle past the backyard of the big house with the in-ground pool. I
see the cage half draped with canvas, hear the dog. I call Animal Control. They
check it out, tell me the old lab has enough water, food and shelter. Nothing
they can do. But I still hear the plaintive cry. We are helpless.
The verse begins to slow, drain itself of words, searches for the right ending.
The window is closing, inching closer to the sill. Soon, all the air will be on the