After the second world war, 
Unitarian Singles held spaghetti suppers 

to grease the skids of courtship. 
A fresh crop of engineers found work 

in Erie, and local girls turned out 
to reap. My mother eyed a lanky, 

shivering loner from California— 
black hair, good teeth. He never spoke 

of what happened that night.
All she ever said was, 

I made him wash the dishes. 
He didn’t want to, but he did. 

So their sparring began—
my father saying No, my mother 

saying Yes, louder and longer, 
until he threw up his hands.

When I was four, 
the vacant lot next door 
taught me about temptation. 
There it sat, weedy and wild,
the edge of civilization. 
Neighbor boys from across 
the street said snakes shot 
from holes in the earth. 
So why did I sneak onto 
that turf, where I couldn’t 
see the danger? In I went, 
farther each time until 
a rustle or shadow made
me flee. Those same boys 
who conjured snakes 
played me for my marbles 
on the driveway, stealing
my favorite cats’ eyes. 
What made me think 
I could win?

Because it was squat, bruised, and dull.
Because the cracked handle was unusable.
Because my mother sent it for my 50th birthday, 
with a note explaining it came to her broken.
Because I showed my brother, there at my party, 
who announced, Oh, I have one of those.
Because in that instant I knew his was perfect.

Because twelve years later, after my father died, 
my brother and I fought on the phone.
Because I said how I felt about mom plying him 
with gifts, money, and heirlooms.
Because he claimed he had nothing.
Because a week later he wrote and asked 
if I wanted anything he had.
Because, in the dark hours, I remembered 
the teakettle.

Because he sent it.
Because we’ve barely spoken since.
Because I gave the bad one to the thrift store.
Because the good one gleams—graceful, complete.