Toeing the Line

When teaching me to drive, my dad said

I drove too close to the ditch. My mom

said he was crazy. She was never wrong.

We’d gotten the car because grandma’s death paid,

settled in court by farmers whose cow got splayed

out by grandma’s windshield, her back a prong

until she passed in hospice. Then dad was gone

a long time, driving aimlessly through woods

and country roads, good place to get hit

by what remains on earth. Loose dirt, gravel,

cow shrapnel, kids at home that stay up waiting.

I learned to cut those corners, babble songs,

until I crashed into a bridge, my tire

down the creek, my dad, unraveled and right.

Tableless Feasts

Couch

Legs make the best plates. Curve them however you’d like. Hips are more flexible than most temperaments, than most carrots. Someone can smile at you from nearly every angle. Side, other side, straight. Aloneness can be a blessing, can be less crumbs to eviscerate later, can mean that everything is just for you, the world and closing-time takeout, too. Coffee table full of everything besides coffee. Book, packet, folder, book, no coffee, no stew. A mother’s voice can call from a thousand miles away. Cozy little spring dove. Hug those shaky knees tight. Voices are not something to eviscerate.

Floor

All punk-like, all jet-setting-like, all this is what your ass is for. All encompassing, all cool, all the meal one can make out of lint. All put down your sword and crown, all dirty baseboards, all the question of taste. All the wait or the want, all pizza seasoned with cat hair, all remember this. All memory and no bite, all sanded-down time, all justification with a pinch of salt. We’re all just big ole slabs of meat, a cousin says. All the bewilderment that comes from learning to cut a steak.

Love Seat

Love might be a bright, pungent stain on a discount seat from Midwest Clearance Center. Thai restaurants with a spice scale from 1-10, more room to snuggle a tongue in. Homemade stir-fry, canned baby corn. Someone dies. Voicemails. Stalemates. Crushed red pepper and sesame seed. The body can hold much in a lap. Rice. Steam. Longing. A shot of tequila. The cadence of a lip. The soft pitter-patter of chewing all the day’s work. Worries. Beige wall. Worries.

Bed

Residues like ketchup drops, like spicy mustard desire. Cotton or silk? Walmart or Target? Bed Bath & Beyond is going out of business. The western light is going out of business. The crook of an arm is going out of business. Consciousness is going out. Water. Piss and water. Wrapper somewhere. Someone somewhere. The clitoris. The Clamato. The stench of hot sauce on the breath. Air passing, air exchanging, air’s refusal to leave come morning, come the open window.

Car

Theories are always relative. Blue car. Gold car. A thousand miles. Nebraska, South Dakota, Pacific Ocean. Smelling like every gas station ever pissed in. Smelling like corn dogs, like Corn Nuts, ranch, a midwestern dusk. Anything hot. Mountain stories. Mountain trees. Mountains mounting one another. Smashed tomatoes of taillight. Salsa. Anything hot. Jalapeño. Girls go missing. Cold. Check your tires. Check your transmission. Check your oil. Anything hot. Danger. Check your hotness. AC out. Garlic grows anywhere from ten to twelve cloves.

Grass

No leaves, just blades. Novelty flavored vodka. Remember the picnic basket. Remember the crustless sandwiches. Remember that you’re supposed to love this, love me. Remember the ants and their little inaudible clicks. Photos for Instagram. Photos of food strewn about perfectly. Remember the sound of a fist going through the bathroom door. The munching of lettuce and leaves. Remember, no utensils. Eat blueberries with bare hands. Here’s one for your table, your hair, your neck, your stare.

Standing

Little girls grow out of their mothers’ laps. There are few ways to restore these nutrients. Let’s try to supplement with capsuled pajamas. With beet juice. Let’s try to touch our toes before breakfast. Good for digestion. Let’s reverse blood flow, open a bag of store soil. Let’s hold hands. Let’s pretend that we’re all Peter Pan, not Tinkerbell. Let’s jar homemade pickles with too much spice. Let’s massage each other’s calves. Let’s crack open a six-pack.

Hands

I trust you like I trust the peel of a discount orange, the stench resting on my hands for hours. If all the wrinkles stood together, they’d be a sturdy stalk. I trust you like it’s not enough. I’m starving. I trust my hip up on the door of the fridge while searching for something with substance. I don’t remember the last time that I stocked it. Desire and basil-flavored soap have me eating right out of your hands.

Horticulture in the Sticks

I do my best to walk in a straight line, foam

flip flops unwavering in their lack of support.

This is how I like things: bits of unearthed

rocks lodging themselves in my soles. Tiny

untilled phantoms. I’ve done none of the work

this year but I reap. I eat. I watch my mom bent

crooked over a bushel of green bean leaves. She’ll snap

them at the kitchen table for hours, with or without

my help. Synonyms for production, she’ll drive

them to our neighbors in used Walmart sacks,

then can what’s left, lower them into a pot

of boiling water and wait for the skittish lids to pop.

As a teen, I’d watch this process from the periphery

of our Miracle-Gro yard, Mom sweating through

the open window, me baking under the tattered towel of

midwestern sun, bikini full of fire ants, anything for a good tan.

Now I slink with the weight of not knowing what’s ripe

enough to pluck. Every year, my siblings and I work

toward careers and new families, with the first-gen

education that our parents labored for. Every year, my parents

say this is the garden’s last. I plead, but they say

it doesn’t matter, our jars will hold. Old bones.

I grab what looks red and into the bucket it goes.