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PATRIARCH
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— When the boy confessed to raping a 3 year old, his fatherIt’s not yet winter, but the air is just starting to turn, which is why the boy is wearing long pants and a sweatshirt, or had been wearing them, now he’s stripping them off. The man makes him fold the clothes, set them in a stack on the ground. The man is not one for messes. Behind him, a woman is screaming. The boy kneels on the ground. He says, Daddy don’t. He says I’m sorry. The woman is screaming. I can’t tell you what she says — no one is listening. The boy is kneeling. The woman is screaming. The man is controlling his breath. His eyes are wide open. He’s counting to three.
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THE ROCK GARDEN
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Just below the surface, a bed secures the stones, holds them steady beneath the step of our small boys, who have been told often to stay off. Instead, they make their way, as on a bridge above the mulch, wobbling a bit beside the Salvia, and worse, the roses. One day, their small hands will reach into those sharp branches. Looking to steady themselves, they will gather only a palm-full of thorns. Against the comfort of their early lives, they’ll find a different sort of balance.
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RITE OF SPRING
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You and I make love as if it’s spring, though there’s frost all around, and the lilies have yet to interrupt. Birds forego their formations. No reason to fly south now that the seasons have forgotten their order. You clear the leaves from the pond and the water sits crystalline, free of algae and other life. I can feel the iris undulating in the hard soil, the tulips polishing their cups. Tell me the words to set things right.
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