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      September 12, 2009Jason SchosslerBaby Steps

      This is the evening my sister drove home
      in the ’78 Nova that drained
      her first savings account at Farmer’s National.

      She folded sweaters for it,
      tossed newspapers onto porches,
      scrubbed pots and pans for Dr. Choy
      who spanked life into us
      at the county hospital,
      sacrificing a year’s worth
      of Friday and Saturday nights
      for this very moment,
      a set of keys she wouldn’t have to ask
      permission to borrow on her way
      to Eddie’s Grille or the movies.

      Out came our mother picking dried plum
      from her fingernails. She circled the car,
      her mouth forming the zero of loss
      as she inspected the torn front seat, the bald tires,
      the slow drip of black water from the engine.
      She said, I suppose next you’ll want your own place,
      and then muttered something else, a little cooler,
      farther away, before returning to her crumb pie

      in the kitchen, screen door slamming shut
      on my sister and her night,
      darkness gliding west as she crouched
      beside her investment, red-faced and confused,
      going back over the wheels, the splash guards,
      the pool of oil that would cling to the driveway
      and never quite let go.

      from #27 - Summer 2007