Bio Note: I attempt to help our Veterans heal as a RN in the Seattle area. In former lives I taught high school, practiced acupuncture, and managed aquatic centers. I try to be funny for my lovely kids and wife, but I am mostly arthritic and cranky. My second chapbook Mr. Rogers kills fruit flies is available from Main Street Rag.
1. ice points the lawn with mirrors blinking as i step past in my sandals i grip the recycling taste the smell of frost the poppy stems which spread as weeds still erect resplendent—the hose chokes with slush as i rinse the remaining carrots which i pull from the earth’s glittering gums 2. my mother reclines on the family room couch the velour one we never use in the room which stays vacant until recently when the yelling cranked off like a creaking faucet and a distance has spread words apart—a forest where spruce and fir have been thinned with no plans of replanting 3. with a child and now a baby i have no time to yank the dandelion and red clover from between strawberries onions or peas so i roll black fabric over the growth gauging holes where the wanted vegetables will be allowed to grow—i hold the dark sheets down with rocks some rusted pins—at intervals peppermint and chamomile emerge from the edges and the torn places 4. my son flips one twisted stretch of muscle on the changing table even with the purple-red lion wet in his gums he whirls like an otter in kelp i grip his legs pull the swollen diaper off with a swift motion ripping one side off—he stops—startled i don’t think i hurt him but i am ashamed that i have exerted too much against his fragile will 5. first frost and the roses will be cut shears snap through wiry stems and sparse burgundy leaves some slice cleanly as thin acquaintances some resist the blade i cannot keep any flowers even the newly opened because they will die out here and this is the season for death— but i hold two bruise-red buds curled in utero carry them into the room where we eat—where we continue to live
©2020 Scott Ferry
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