​The House of Weather Magic


My father, drafted to be the face 
of the House of Weather Magic, a serene 
god in his lab coat, dirty fingers pointing 
to the mechanics of the chiller, 
his blond curls slicked with Brylcreem; 
see him gesture to a crowd who’ll someday 
ride in air conditioned comfort, cool 
and oblivious as the pretend 
passengers above them. It’s 1954 
and life is as easy as buying a ticket, 
taking the all-aboard to the city, 
travelers sighing through rails of heat.  
This is the summer of Elvis 
and the Lone Ranger’s last ride. Hi ho! 
Later, Father will drive home, 
domed lunch box in the back seat, 
a day’s worries sandwiched next to him.
He’ll step into his home thirty minutes 
later, sit down with his paper 
before my mother calls “dinner.”  
We dare not disturb him 
until after the news, to air the just-wait 
till-your-father-gets-home gripes.
But now we pass our plates, which he fills 
with what his paycheck affords.  
Mother hovers, making sure his coffee 
is hot, his salad crisp, her cup of complaints 
simmering. I am the chubby girl in the corner, 
the one who is always crying her blues.
But Father is too busy for me, now 
tossing bills into the payday lottery.  
Even though steam from the Maytag sweats 
the basement windows, 
the temperature in the house is cool.  




​
Mea Culpa


My mother never wanted the luncheon 
after the burial. The Cheez Whiz 
and potato chips on rye, ham 
sliced thin as a whisper. She didn’t want 
casseroles or tri-color pasta salads, 
no cake with soupy frosting or pale 
lemonade, no white-haired ladies 
and no-haired men, big-bellied cousins 
distant or otherwise, clutching my hand.
She didn’t want the minister’s slim 
benedictions before the clink of forks.  
My father said it was all right, though,
while I circled tables with water, 
afraid to take a seat for fear 
she’d smell the coffee brewing 
or the tuna noodle hotdish as it passed 
between tables, notice my father’s 
shadow walking beside me.