Before Thanksgiving at your in-laws
some voice stirs in you, says,
I’m gonna get you wasted.

Some other voice replies,
Oh no you’re not. It’s bad.
You don’t like it.

No one listens to that voice,
the first voice says.

So you scurry to the basement,
to the storeroom in the back
where the old twine, twelve oak boards,
and mildewed maple syrup
lie bearded in dust

and pack a bowl
with sticky bud,
light it up.

Through the haze
you remember now why
it might have been a bad idea.

If you could, now
you’d peel back the caul
covering up the question
you can’t remember
to ask.

You want to feel better.
That’s all.

But covering up that feeling
is some ancient anger,
punky with moisture and drought
in wrong proportions.
Or ossified, steely, or just really,
really.what? Hard.

And covering up that anger
is the present one,
just a few hours old.

And underneath them both
a little fear.

And underneath the little fear
a bigger one.

But anyway, none of what now occurs
to you occurs for very long.

Giddy with the tingle
of basement molds
and the lurid 40 watt
rainbows of the naked bulbs
you rise into the steam
and conversation
of the packed kitchen.

At dinner you make
silly conversation,
give your in-laws
one more story
to layer over
who everybody
thinks you are.

Categories: The Grind, Uncategorized
No Comments »