Sedentary, Ordinary, Hereditary
We closed the bathroom door, the chunks
of Oh’s and bile I spewed on the linoleum,
left a shrine to declination: Dad’s house.
Saturdays I cleaned; folding holey briefs,
scrubbing pans and bowls crusted together,
rinsing maggots down the drain. We had
rats stick-stiff in the laundry pile,
ear wigs in the shower, no bedtime.
We took tornado precautions the time
CPS came: Keep away from the doors
and windows. My brother never left
his room anyway. He may still be there,
embalmed, among a bed of candy
wrappers, holding a two-liter bouquet.
When I came back from college my Jeep was
gone with my CDs, shoes, and gum.
Vaporized like cash or pills or time.
You can’t sucker punch me.
Even now I feel feral, hunched, squatting
in my desk chair like homo neanderthalensis.
I string gruff words together,
my offspring growling low in the background.