Three Poems

Knob

I bought a stove today—didn't mean to—
I only wanted to replace the plastic knob

that melted in the fire my husband
started when I said he had to go,

the flames his way of saying No, please
don't make me. An architect who never built,

a contractor who didn't fix, a sculptor
who gave up, he piled his books & papers

on the stovetop while espresso on another burner
chuffed & steamed. I meant to love him

but could not, his need to get the last
word as persistent as his fear of being left,

a prophecy he married me to fulfill. At Best Buy
I was told (but don't believe) a single knob

can't be obtained. For fifty bucks, they hauled
the range sans knob away. Every time

I looked at it, I saw black smoke.
My coats & sweaters still reek.

 

Jakob Shoe & Watch

Tell me about yourself says my top match.
I am a woman watching About Schmidt

with many books & more regrets
& too much space to spread out (fall apart) in.

I've got a load of friends & fears. I wake
in dread. My mother drank herself to death,

I wasn't there but can explain. Closing the dating app,
I set out for the shop to find a man I trust,

an engineer from Minsk who fixes everything
from beaded bracelets to flat tires, asking

no questions. I bring three watches with dead
batteries. Will I wear one of them before the hands

stop moving again? Still, it falls on me to keep
them going. Jakob understands. I leave a twenty,

tuck the little purple ticket in my wallet, ask
when I can pick them up. Jakob says I call you.

 

Three Bathrooms in Warsaw, Indiana

Dad's bathroom was down a dark hall. We were forbidden to go there, but we snuck in when he was gone. It was immaculate. Please be patient, God is not through with me yet hung on the wall beside a white-skirted Greek soldier in pointy shoes, puff balls on his toes. We often used Mom's bathroom, left our handprints on the gunky counter littered with her curlers & lipsticks. She smiled while she applied her Revlon reds, the only time we saw her smile without a glass of wine. She loved babies, but not kids, & hated teenagers, which we four were at the same time. In the kids' bathroom, drawers were stuffed with Playboys & Penthouses, filched by our brother who worked nightshift maintenance at the Ramada Inn on Road 15. Our bathroom door didn't lock—our parents never went in. It was the 70s. We drove drunk. Big, boxy cars. Sometimes Mom vaguely hinted Dad was gay / not really our father / a former hit man. Her bathroom door locked but was easy to jimmy.