The Summer after Seventh Grade on Glengary Road

I remember twins
before the mall came tumbling down
(where no library would nest
in its debris). They swam

in a pool
attached to a house
my father bought
before they tore down

the family. It was broken
by the time those boys jumped
off the diving board
into lukewarm June

water. And the poodle
had already eaten the kits
nesting in a rabbit
burrow by the wooden fence.

Friday the 13th

Not tripping
under ladders, the girl
wears lips
on a t-shirt, men

block the entrance
to anywhere
she might want

to pass through
to escape hidden
there were none.

Blind Pouch

An old air
stream on a newly paved
driveway, a red pickup
like the one I imagined

I would own
one day. Still unlicensed
and not ready

to relinquish
sidewalks, I hug

the side of the road
and think
of the mystery
left in this escape.


A tree house built
upon itself
without a trunk
to hug. Painted white,
it becomes a crow’s

nest for spying
those moving
things in the grass. Or,
just blades
someone might make

music with—someone
who no longer lives
in the brick house
on that acre
of land missing a tree.

Down Cellar Stairs

Someone has written
the inconvenience of death
in my handwriting
on the fence. Accidental
rhyme brings me closer
to a private hilarity. To laugh
at my own
impatience jumbled
in a dryer
with my hesitation—
would I be any
more ready?

Ashes East

She can catch the train
at the next station down

the line. Still sit forward
and watch future

vistas become now.
A national cemetery with endless

rows of evenly spaced
headstones. The mother’s there

and the father she never knew. But
not the son.