At Breakfast

In the curve of the apple the child saw a presentiment
of her life with them-- a smooth cheek, reflecting nothing
in its dull shine, the juice's sour bite only within.
Words flew around her head each morning like black birds
flapping from one carrion to the other.
The child couldn't leave the dishes to soak.
She washed them as they grew soiled, so no scrap
would lie neglected for long. Living with them
was like standing still
while two dressmakers picked over every stitch
of what she wore, with bleeding fingers,
till the last scrap fell away into threads.
Should she move? Should she tear
the draperies away, or pick up a needle
and stab along with them, crying, "This is how
I want it mended, over here!"?
Meanwhile spoons scraped the bottoms of bowls
and the water in the cups went down.
There wasn't much time
before they all had to leave.

Natural Mistakes

A damp sack of black soil,
smelling of natural death,
slumps against the tool shed's
rain-battered side.
No, that's your son
slumped down
aimlessly on the earth,
as unaware of lightning
as the soil is of the spade.

Somewhere within the walls
unreachable, the skittering claws and shrill
squeaks of a wild animal
dying in your house by mistake
invade the bedroom dark.
It's your son who endlessly
grunts and beats his fingers
rhythmically against his bed rails
as if typing in a language so secret
even he doesn't know it.

The smashed apples fallen around the tree
exude a heady, spoiled perfume.
You can't crush the clouds
of buzzing flies
any more than you could drink up all the air
that the people who used to know you
might breathe.
You have to let your other children go
past your concealing gates
each morning into the ripening day.
This boy's body that you tend
just grows heavier, like a swelling pumpkin
that rots on the vine.

Last night you raged again
and smashed against the wall
your teacup white as a skull,
spilling its inert contents.
It's a stain you can't conceal.
Your normal children stared.
Now you're standing too close
to the crackling fire
in which you think you hear
their painfully articulate whispers
over the phone to the regulated world.
Soon the secret police of compassion will arrive
some surprise midnight to remove them,
as efficient and merciful as the hearse
that bears the hungry mourners
home to the wake, and away
from the dumb, undesired dead.