Liz Robbins
Mike's Rage
Past porches, the night's parched wind unfurls,
peels layers from the spindle legs of girls.
Danica's out with Amy, Jill, and Jess.
The downtown spotlight spins in white distress.
I walk to Gyp's, the brown-lit, paneless bar,
her moon face smears in every passing car.
Lights clench and whistles tear. I order shots,
and build the inner fire of sticks and knots.
Soon I'll hear the wheat field, darkened farm
where once I hid. Blue corners tight with arms
and leather, flinches.
When the hours grow young,
I'll see her blank thighs soundlessly unstrung.
Smell the wind's blood-knuckled fists and dirt.
The girls go by, scissoring in skirts.
"A Family On Their Lawn One Sunday in Westchester, N.Y., 1968"
Just what his father was, a wild-eyed kid,
is difficult to envision now (Dad covers
his eyes, tired from the sun, Mom's in the mid-
life crisis bikini). Their son discreetly hovers
above a blue inflated pool in the yard,
leans down to gaze at his own small face.
His parents, lying long in chairs, are guards:
their bodies turned away to smaller traces
of comfort: stuffed ashtray, the full glass
on the table in between. Their weekend bliss:
the country club tan. Their weekend pass:
him running the yard. They do not kiss
or touch, but once they did. Dad eyeing Mom's hips,
some years before the boy's name crossed their lips.
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