by Laurie Kolp
Kale gutters leaves and stuffs them in his pockets.
Later he will dump them at his front door
and pretend to slip so he can miss piano lessons.
His mother will pop off the couch, drink still in hand
because no matter how much she staggers
the drink always remains intact. Sometimes
Kale even wonders if its gelatin.
She will bang the door open, her expression
a feline mix between anger and fear. Sip.
She will yell at Kale and tell him he’s a klutz. Sip.
Her drink won’t splash but her arms will thrash
as she overreacts to the messy leaves. Sip.
His knees and elbows will grow strawberries
because he fell too hard and he will long
for the mother who once sat him in his lap
and wiped away his tears. Kale’s hunchbacked
father breaking plates on the wall while Mother
sticks Band-Aids on his cuts and rocks him to sleep.
[Featured]Digital Art Image Credit: life.death.renewal by J.A. Spahr-Summers. ©Copyright 2015, Jeffrey A. Spahr-Summers.
Snapping Twig – Summer – 2015
Vol: May 2015 thru Jul 2015