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soil the sound on the TV is turned all the way down NASA trainees in white jumpsuits float off the deck as their jumbo jet barrel rolls over the atlantic "it's temporary orbit," a graphic explains they're falling, not flying." but they have the vague look of angels and i think of the spirit world the veil separating me from them the living from the dead summer evenings are like this now the humidity coats everything, like sheet music and a doctor's innocent question lasts all day "... your mother's cause of death?" poison ivy. blisters on her arms so bad they were a half-inch high after being dragged around the garden by the roto-tiller she would sit at the table and lance them the needle in the candle then in the blister the price for a harvest of beans, pumpkins, and the inevitable zucchini envelopes. paper-clipped in her dresser drawer, with little pencil names "dishwasher" "freezer" "new dress" her nails flicking quietly through them as i wait petting the cash in my pocket as i run for the bus strawberries. she always said she would grow strawberries but she never did in that raised garden in the back yard a three-layer wedding cake made of dirt gravity. she didn't do enough barrel rolls too many g forces i wanted to say, "pull up mom, pull up" but she just kept on sinking straight into west virginia turning brown and loose in my hands |
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