After
dropping him off she drove downtown
where
they shaved her forearm and tattooed a sticky sunflower
in
commemoration of watching the hungry pines prepare to grind
her Freshman son into splinters and
scatter them through the woods.
Orange
oily globs had floated on the pale milk of
the lake
during their last meal together at
the student cafeteria.
Her eyes brimmed
with bongwater. Bits of gristle
drifted toward
the surface and she held them under
with
the bamboo spork until the bubbles stopped.
Arm
swaddled in Saran Wrap, she drove back
past
the evergreen fence with its mesh of compass needles
to
the Motel 8 on the outskirts of Oly and flopped onto the bed
basted in sweat, simmering in a broth of worry.
Half
a bottle of merlot later, she put the news on mute
and
yanked the ripcord and
the emergency life raft in her chest inflated
She
let the current drag he down the carpeted hall
past
the housekeeping closet crammed with cans of Pledge
and
extra washrags and lozenge soaps
Past
the rack bristling with tourist magazines
begging
her to visit Raingutter Falls, the Roadkill Museum,
the
Cave of the Electric Hairdryers
Past
the front desk clerk watching the playoffs
with the sound off, the numbers nine and one
always cued up on his phone,
until
she ended up, as everyone does
in
every one of my poems,
out
at the edge of the parking lot,
looking
up at the stars,
trying
not to imagine too hard.
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