Worms in the Summer Grass
It isnít that far into June when the heat stings soft
Spring away, and my family migrates to the sticky lake
to cool ourselves beneath the shade of a beach-umbrella.
Rusted fishhooks and burnt grills surround the lake
like ants around a rotting tree. The sky floats across
the water, as I rub my hands on wet grass,
dripping sweat and bugs. Silence unnerves me.
He brings us here, like a family affixed, but
the worms and I know differently.
He rocks on water-logged sneakers near lake-weeds
where the mosquitoes hover and snails are born.
I concentrate on threading a dying worm and imagine itís him.
The ground around makes a sucking sound
like a dry drain. I sip from an empty can praying
he slips into the water. He sits away from us,
over where the boy from Rochester Farm choked
and died a few years back. I never knew that boy.
At some point his presence wakes me.
He hovers over the bed; I notice my sheets peeled back
towards the wall. Encumbered by his weight, I await the end,
clenching my eyes as his hand holds onto the mattress.
My line jerks and I reel in a throw-back. I wait until nightfall,
when we will travel back to the house,
and I will scrub ground worms from beneath
my fingernailsóand he will come into the bathroom
to pee with me, the worm burdened around a rusted hook.
Edited by BeautyforAshes (09/10/12 02:38 AM)
Taking it back one day at a time.