My mother wrestles with the stakes
and I with her, with the tomato vines
caught in our decades-old wires.
Their stalks threaten to split
as the wires (reused, warping) tangle.
And we blame everything— the heat,
the mosquitoes bearing some new,
life-threatening disease—for ...
I was fifteen. My father and I stood
at the basement threshold, shouting
at each other, maybe the only time.
Go, he told me. Just get out. Holding
open the white door. And I left,
like I’d left other afternoons, slipping
that house over my head in the slow
dream anger can ...