© 2010 Kathryn Atwood

DAVE ALLEN IS SHOOTING BASKETS

I know this because I hear the pound, pound, pound of his basketball that wishes he was taller

than the distance to Flagg Creek where the crunching of the shallow ice becomes 

smooth gliding as we light the black disk that turns to a hissing snake

pointing to the black cat staring silent at the dog who tries to scream it dead.

Dad says it’s our lost kitten, come all the way from under the bridge

where we breathe our first forbidden smoke.

(Matt said Micah wasn’t inhaling).    

THE YEAR JACKIE BECAME A WIDOW

Just months before Dallas,

Mom and Dad posed

on their new barren land

and Mom’s heels sunk in the mud

and Dad’s suit was blown by wind

that carried his cologne across the dirt

which later cemented into the street

Gary would cross (after his crew grew

and long after Oswald got shot)

to see forbidden Sandy

while her brother Dave danced his hoop dreams

into everyone’s sleep.

All work is property of Kathryn Atwood.

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