MY SON SAYS THANK YOU WHEN I SAY I LOVE YOU
It happened one time, then again;
I am certain whatever it indicates—
embarrassment, or maybe
he’s unearthed quietly
the fact that I am difficult
to love, and responds
in the only reasonable way he can—
the new exchange cemented itself
into our routines around the time
of the divorce.
I’ve heard children will often
punish the mother. Why shouldn’t they
unload their righteous little arsenals?
There must be another version of our life.
One where we never have to leave
the farm by the woods,
where the trampoline
springs never rust,
the Japanese maple has grown enormous,
and the forsythia I planted,
rampant—it has so wildly
taken over, that after a long day
when we pull in the winding drive
towards home, we can’t remember
why we are so sad,
because everything is a clamor
of yellow yellow yellow—
the house, the yard, the barn,
even the pine-choked sky.
—from Rattle #84, Summer 2024
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Staci Halt: “I am a writer near Boston and mother of six wonderful humans and several pets. My poems often come through a speaker who faces or reflects on terrifying circumstances; the poems end up serving as a sort of container for something that demands containment or would otherwise be unbearable.” (web)
