Father’s DayYou twist the ads that come in the mail for doorframes and peaches into a Father’s Day bouquet. I remove urine ring from toilet bowl. Theo throws a tantrum over the brush dripping in its little stand. The moment I close the door, he wants out of the guest bedroom where he had been so contentedly building blocks. On our seven-year anniversary, we drive him to the Burr Oak Woods Nature Center where only one sticker per visit is permitted. Alone in the bathroom I apply mine to the inside cover of my notebook. You attach yours to Theodore’s chest. With so many options, we both pick MAGNIFICENT MONARCHS! The Antagonist In the season of chainsaws, I hose sawdust off the slide. Remove my T-shirt and squeeze rainbows out of my spray bottle. I watch the white welt of the mosquito bite rise on my forearm. I have always been a problem to myself. I has always been a problem to me. After Theo steals my Contigo, I steal his. Turnabout’s fair play. The difference is I drink his water, he pours out mine over the dusty pavement. I dunk my feet in his kiddie pool, lawn-chaired in maple shade, slip out of my Crocs and capsize the caddie that contains his cups and sponges, his waterworks-designated tray. Folding ClothesI am always leaving my fly open. Always in a hurry to return. I reach out in the dark and knock over my glass of water on the nightstand. Fall asleep thinking I should drape the towel over the bedpost. Lili makes my folding look very sloppy indeed with her neatly stacks of bath towels. What am I not seeing? What am I choosing not to see? How does the mind know? How do I know what to look for? In this jumble of details falling into place? Hazel eyes, hospital pacifier, son, I slide the newly folded shirt warm below the cold ones in the drawer I’ll warm before I see it surface, re- surface, cold. Roasted Seaweed |
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