We Still Fight
We sat at Uncle Bob's funeral
in troops. My dad and brother
the suit troop poised with pointy teeth
and winged tipped shoes against my mother
and me. My sister is lost in the middle,
in the endless tug of war of custody battles,
car troubles, and dental care. And nobody
is listening to Ecclesiastes. We glaring
at each other. Fighting each other still,
even in mourning.
My Uncle Bob was an airplane pilot. An aviation engineer.
He fought the second world war with wings
and in the war of the Johnsons
fled with the implement of the draft.
I remember projector screens with scratchy
black and white 35mm film with gray planes
flying in mild skies. And we would watch
them loudly over my parents voices.
The drives to Bob's were stifled and cold.
The volvo broke down once. Dad left
all of us on the side of the road, waving and smiling
out of a tow truck window. That's when Bob
gave us snicker bars and told us to be good
because good children were easier to love.
Today, my dad is talking as the procession is starting,
about family and values and Bob's bowl of happiness.
I am staring at my hands, my bitten off nails,
and chewing on the inside of my cheeks. The war
of my parents marriage continues. The struggle
of the good life versus the bad life.
We all wished we held Bob a little bit closer, listened
to him with more attentive ears, and were better children
so that we were easier to love.
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Grocery List
Coffee unground undone and roasted darkly
with the finest flavors of mexican flour tortillas
barbeque chicken chips ranch dressing and spinach fun
dipped into the dumpling stew of rare lamb thighs
and thick carrot sticks of spagetti noodles
penne fettacuinne linguine. Angel hair
with a bow tie covered in Prego Garden Select of asparagus
who chokes the heart of the alfalfa sprout
while pumpkin squashes the aloe vera vine
and cheese beets the radish over and over and over.
In season strawberries pink like salmon and whipped
creamy on top of coconut and butterscotch and rum raisin
drunk like cranberry juice without pulp.
Swedish fish swimming through tunnels of laffy taffy
and twizzling around in lollipop land.
Captain Crunch calls for a stop to the violence of vegetables
against vegetables and says we're all fruit anyway and gets booed
from the popcorn melted buttered colored stage.
Tomatoes rotting in the hot sun dry near potatoe latke
for summer vacation thrills cotton
candy to swirl and spin sugar into a bed
of bright flours and marshmallow pillows to catch their fall.
