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rhya tamasauskas
Caitlyn Wilson
in July
records play
on her mothers record player
Records:
Joni Mitchell ~ blue
Cyndi Lauper ~ she is so unusual
Neil young ~ after the gold rush
Thick verses hang off the clotheslines
Caught in the sleeves of a mother’s cardigan
Words reaching ears muted and soft
More whisper than hymn
we share a cigarette
and she temps asthma.
I am already addicted.
the window is open upstairs.
in Angus's room.
an oak sill,
splintered
gathering
a wooden mouth open
for a yellow season
the screen above
broken and rusted
from past blue seasons
that rumble behind the summer
he can hear us if he cared
but he is eleven and really does not care.
there are hot weeds and grasses around our sandals.
Dandelions
Thistles
Thorns
Screeching along the peak of ankle
Drawing out
Dripping roots
Salty red
That fall
Heavy
In streams towards heel and earth.
Caitlyn is still wearing braces...
her smile harnessed for five years
her thumb itching
I worry about the colour of her teeth.
I worry about these things
About marks and poxes across my skin
uneven ears
Uncontrollable blushing
drooling in public
itchy nylons
tight shoes
and the cigarette was my suggestion
god it is hot.
and there are so many bugs on her farm
they are in my hair
and I know the grasshoppers are waiting to spring.
the smoke is as hot as the air
and they sit together
in front of our faces
still poison
like the pond water behind the barn.
brown still
kissed by green plant or amphibian
sworn at by ratty bulrushes and knotty lily pads.
a brown calm broken by rocks or rain or fish tails
the still surface a legend under the corduroy finish.
Caitlyn is starting to wheeze,
her breath a soft fog
the colour of pollen and worry
that reaches my mouth tasting airless and bland.
so I snuff out the cigarette.
we have not said much because of the heat.
just listening to record player
and open window. |
