I knock again. No answer the first time. She peeks through door as I see the spy hole eclipse. The chain is
hung, so it only opens slightly. I'm tall. She only sees my chest through the peephole, so she can't be sure
who it is yet.
I grunt and the door swings open quickly. Her hug pins my arms tightly, and she's lightly kissing my shirt. I
come over after classes at the small university down the street. Every Tuesday for years. Our little ritual.
She returns to the dishes. I go to the table and start rolling a joint. The couch is moved from the little carpet
dents. Those deliriously happy Hummel figurines on the shelf are gone. The window blinds are drawn and
the radio is on. Dishes clank in the bright, immaculate, tiny kitchen. The soft music is some inoffensive
trash that sings quietly.
It's too much time to wait. She's scrubbing the same plate, purposely ignoring my shadow. My question is
unanswered. She doesn't even turn around. I countertop slide to her side and she turns slightly away.
My forefingers grasp her chin lightly, and she starts to cry as I turn her face to see the green-yellow bruise.
It's already a few days old by the color. She turns sharply and hides vainly against the bare white wall.
Oh, Mom
My shirt is already printed by the teary hugs. She sucks air hard and squeezes even tighter. I walk her to the
stiff wood chairs by the table and we sit close together. We always sit close together.
I light the thing and smoke it mostly myself. She hangs on my sleeve like an imaginary precipice and I'm an
oak root growing from the cliffside.
It's autumn and it rains a lot here. The same shirt was soaked earlier when the wind shook a tree that was
wet with morning dew, supposedly ruining my day.
I leave at my regular time, with my regular excuse. I cry as I drive dangerously home. The night's sleep is
just as reckless and quick.
Both of their schedules are as regular as clockworks on a Sunday afternoon. Professional football on the
television, and a day of work for her. I still have the spare key from that trip South they took, and he never
hangs the chain like she does. This day was planned on that first sleepless night. I cut the engine halfway
down the block and I leave the car door open as I glide to a silent stop in the suburban driveway.
The overturned chair loses a leg from my stomp. He threatens with a hidden gun and I eliminate that
possibility as I pick up the stump. There's nothing wrong with a man fighting another man. A son has a
responsibility.
The next weekend is warm and bright. I borrow a truck and we move her things. One of the little Hummel
figurines is unbroken, and he's smiling from his cardboard box, as happy as ever.
hung, so it only opens slightly. I'm tall. She only sees my chest through the peephole, so she can't be sure
who it is yet.
I grunt and the door swings open quickly. Her hug pins my arms tightly, and she's lightly kissing my shirt. I
come over after classes at the small university down the street. Every Tuesday for years. Our little ritual.
She returns to the dishes. I go to the table and start rolling a joint. The couch is moved from the little carpet
dents. Those deliriously happy Hummel figurines on the shelf are gone. The window blinds are drawn and
the radio is on. Dishes clank in the bright, immaculate, tiny kitchen. The soft music is some inoffensive
trash that sings quietly.
It's too much time to wait. She's scrubbing the same plate, purposely ignoring my shadow. My question is
unanswered. She doesn't even turn around. I countertop slide to her side and she turns slightly away.
My forefingers grasp her chin lightly, and she starts to cry as I turn her face to see the green-yellow bruise.
It's already a few days old by the color. She turns sharply and hides vainly against the bare white wall.
Oh, Mom
My shirt is already printed by the teary hugs. She sucks air hard and squeezes even tighter. I walk her to the
stiff wood chairs by the table and we sit close together. We always sit close together.
I light the thing and smoke it mostly myself. She hangs on my sleeve like an imaginary precipice and I'm an
oak root growing from the cliffside.
It's autumn and it rains a lot here. The same shirt was soaked earlier when the wind shook a tree that was
wet with morning dew, supposedly ruining my day.
I leave at my regular time, with my regular excuse. I cry as I drive dangerously home. The night's sleep is
just as reckless and quick.
Both of their schedules are as regular as clockworks on a Sunday afternoon. Professional football on the
television, and a day of work for her. I still have the spare key from that trip South they took, and he never
hangs the chain like she does. This day was planned on that first sleepless night. I cut the engine halfway
down the block and I leave the car door open as I glide to a silent stop in the suburban driveway.
The overturned chair loses a leg from my stomp. He threatens with a hidden gun and I eliminate that
possibility as I pick up the stump. There's nothing wrong with a man fighting another man. A son has a
responsibility.
The next weekend is warm and bright. I borrow a truck and we move her things. One of the little Hummel
figurines is unbroken, and he's smiling from his cardboard box, as happy as ever.
 |  |  |  |
The Poetry Warrior (c) Abigail Beaudelle - 2008.
All Poetry and artwork (c) the respective artists.
All Poetry and artwork (c) the respective artists.
Back - Issue Two - Next
Carpet Dents
Jim Stiner
Jim Stiner
Jim Stiner is new to writing, only making attempts through the encouragement of
friends and a deep love of literature. He's a product of the internet age, and a
notorious daydreamer. He works and lives in Southern California.
friends and a deep love of literature. He's a product of the internet age, and a
notorious daydreamer. He works and lives in Southern California.