Painting by Pamela Heater
On a Bed with My Mother
Her breath had a scent
cigarettes gone.
From inside today
a weakness in her flesh turned to rest.I handed her the cardboard car
Jimmy Deems' dad gave
to all the second-graders—
Deemsdale Autos—Why Pay More?
on the driver's side door
a delivery box the shape of a Chevy.My mom and I went to work
she in dandelion yellow bed clothes
willing and wanting to tuck tabs
into slots of slabs of cardboard
fluted & glued for strength
a Deemsdale car.My mother sighed
I'm sorry, sweetheart.
I'm so tired. I need to rest.She slipped under the covers
I fell in love
no regret, no pain
memory like a stage play.She's saying these words
a swan, an angel,
a model in stone.A burst of love
for my mother
in the throes of life.
A Bare Counter Is a Lonesome Thing
In a movie I watched when I had the flu
Gig Young played a haberdasher.
There was something so comforting
about him manning table after table
of dry goods and underwear in service to us all
so long as you were allowed in the store.I got caught shoplifting
a shopping mall of junk behind plate glass
like Roman picture frames—
sneakers, skorts, pot metal footballs,
things to protect you, adorn you,
give you power over the next
moment that could be dangerous.I snatched whatever I could—
charm bracelets, golf tees, rubber ducks,
mainly made in Japan. Sounds classy now.
I was busted in Gould's Drugs
for a packet of rubber bands that felt
like a crow's heart in my pocket.A big hand grabbed my shoulder
spun me around
We're calling your mom!
They caught my friend Mark Hefflefinger too.
He'd come along for the heist.
His mother didn't allow him to play with me ever again.
