Gregory Lawless

Sere

 

Asters. And piles

 

of flat stone

by the failed wall

 

and fans of yellow

rocket

 

near patches

of cocklebur.

 

Blur.   Sere.

 

I see nothing

clearly here.

                Inside

 

my migrainous mother

pours cold water

 

onto a washcloth

and lies down

[....]

Gregory Lawless

for an hour. Will

the same thing

 

happen to my

daughters

 

years later?

 

So many

                dark rooms.

 

So many such

hours. Here

 

all the neighbor dogs

come and piss

 

on this

tractor wheel

 

and one, hoar-faced,

 

with a dripping

 

[....]

Gregory Lawless

bad blue eye,

 

sniffs the shattered

grass there

 

and moves on. Good half-gone

 

dog. He falls

 

asleep in the velvetleaf

 

while a grackle

the color of an oilspill

 

flies over the hay–fever

 

fields to light on the slack

garden gate.

 

Dry late

 

spring. So strange,

these things I’m given

 

[....]

Gregory Lawless

to hate: hornsettle

and homecoming, burn drums

 

in shabby backyards, other people’s

 

kids slapping

 

their voices

across the field.

 

Now my mother

 

gets up for a glass

of water.

 

I hear the faucet

voices through

 

the screen

and the scream

 

of weed whackers

down the street.

 

[....]

Gregory Lawless

Do you love it

here? she asks.

 

I love it

some, I say.

 

My daughters

 

throw rocks

in the woods

 

and I call them back

and they do not come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © Gregory Lawless. White Whale Review, issue 3.1