House and Home

Five, in a grey box house with a chain link fence.

I saw a boy in a red shirt crouch and aim both hands at my face while

he closed one eye to see sharply through an invisible scope.

He squeezed his trigger and yelled pow.

Nine, in a brick house in the belly of a cul-de-sac.

I ate tomatoes right off the vine while I breathed in the exhalants of a city pesticide truck.

Fourteen, in a two-story cookie cutter home.

Between an emerald front lawn and a sapphire swimming pool, my grandmother put down her bible and held me by the wrists while telling me no one loved her,

not even my father.

Twenty, in a railroad flat with a black bar bedroom view.

I broke up and made up with two girlfriends and one boyfriend.

I wore lipstick when I was with him.

Twenty-two, in a garage behind the DMV.

On a cement floor with a mattress in the corner and exposed plumbing for a wardrobe hanger, I listened to a verbal abuser tread upon his wife.

Twenty-three, in a two-bedroom with Garfield curtains.

A forgotten cigarette left on the porch turned spray cans into color grenades. I came home to a fire truck with red and white lights flashing,

and a hovering helicopter blowing in the faces of my roommates who were high on LSD.

The landlord was not.

Twenty-four, in a one-bedroom with a dirty carpet.

I witnessed from the window a man getting his gun and person removed by the police. His crew later sprayed five rounds into our apartment.

Twenty-eight, in a flat on the third floor.

A red-haired stunner with a fresh tattoo around her navel lie below. Her mouth opened wider than I liked when we kissed. I never complained.

Thirty, in a converted one-bedroom.

With an overbearing roommate who liked me too much, I worked from my room selling useless insurance to senior citizens.

Thirty-two, in a two-bedroom.

I humanely trapped mice and let them go in the subway.

Thirty-four, in a one-bedroom apartment. I lived with my fiancé above an unstable gun collector. He had garden access, but let the fruit rot on the trees.

Thirty-eight, in a condo. My wife, new baby and I rocked, sang, danced, and hushed.

Forty-one, in a three-bedroom home. I see a boy in a green shirt crouch behind my couch, he aims both hands at my face while closing one eye to see sharply through an invisible scope. He squeezes his trigger and yells pow.

Beige Carpet and Black Streamers

I hide behind the metal folding chair because my mother, my mother’s mother, and my mother’s mother’s mother all stand at the open casket to pay respects to my great grandfather.

To pay respects includes touching the lifeless body.

As I kneel on the beige carpet underneath the black streamers, my mother spots me, shoots a look. Her mother and her mother’s mother crane their necks while weeping loudly into handkerchiefs.

I step up to the casket but I can’t reach. My uncle picks me up and dangles me above the open box.

I flutter as my tears wet the lapels of the ill-fitting suit that never belonged to my great grandfather.

I touch his hands.

I return to earth to find my mother, my mother’s mother, and my mother’s mother’s mother smiling three smiles.

Lynn Purcell

Lynn wants you to kiss her after school

Terrified, I keep the note’s contents under wraps.

My blood tingles and introduces me to my body.

Already passing public school sex education, I know this:

A kiss can not get Lynn pregnant. No threat of rearing a child at age 10.

I swoon and cringe, knees almost buckle at this invitation, I also worry about the man idling in the parking lot. He is pleasant enough, but he does not have much patience.

The stale smell of freshly sharpened pencils is now a bouquet of chocolate and cinnamon.

I wait as the the second-hand leapfrogs over the minute and hour-hands.

Clanging of the bell interrupts the beautiful mayhem behind my eyes.

She wants me.

I slowly walk out of the classroom after the galloping hordes.

I find Lynn.

Her cheeks are red. She leans against the double doors. My smile hurts my head. Her bangs rest atop her lashes and frame her face.

I say Hi.

Honey giggles in my already echoing ears.

I pole-vault towards Lynn's lips that glisten, quiver and pulse.

They taste like Dr. Pepper.

Our smackings are sweet bombs softly exploding. They were lit by fuses of gummi bears and maraschino cherries.

Our tryst has to end. We dizzily draw away from one another.

These sensations are more powerful than my father’s El Camino that drives me home.