M. Kei
In juvenile court,
shackles
on his legs and arms,
ten years old;
'flight risk.'
Her perfumes lingers
on this old sleeve of mine,
wet now with tears;
in the deep hours of the night
the moon is no companion.
Her favorite flower,
daisies, decorates her casket.
At the graveside service
my brother remarks, "Mom's
really pushing up daisies now."
At the end of
a bad oyster season,
we spend Christmas
stripping the oyster boards
and swabbing the deck.
A long winter night,
halos around the street lights,
rain taps the window;
he pulls the blanket
over his sleeping son.
Aboard the Martha Lewis,
we stack the last bushel of oysters
then sit on the cabin top
and stare blankly
at the shore.
When my sister
looks out her window at last,
another candle is lit
on the makeshift altar
on the sidewalk.
Thirty years later:
Prince Charming with nose hair
and love handles;
Cinderella on the telephone
kvetching about child support.
the mad bad black swan
pecks to death the mate
they gave him thinking
that curing his loneliness
would cure his madness
