Familiar yet
the fabric of this couch
still un-stretched,
no smudges or stick
on the white shag carpet
where my toes warm themselves
and fiddle.
Home is a relative term.
This family meeting
festive, somber
we joke as brother and sister do
while Mom lays trays of dip
and Dad spreads out
the papers.
The last time we met for
‘the discussion of the wills’
I was too young to drive
though I had a say in euthanasia.
Now I am grown, I’ve flown faster
than the sun and turned back time
to be here, where
the dishes are the same
but I’m unsure
in which cupboard they reside.
Residence is impermanence.
Dad with his lips like mine
asks if there is anything we want to claim
so nothing becomes messy.
I’m stuck on claim and mess.
Mom is busy, asking about jewelry,
wouldn’t I want
jewelry?
I’m thinking it’s the things
that are meant to sum them up.
My brother and I are still, save for my toes
in the carpet and his allergies waiting
for the rain.
Everything Rolling Stones to my dad
because this is how we’ve related
thought the other really cool
sang words aloud on family road trips
and years later over tequila.
My father gushes quietly,
as is his way
with pride.
Thunder rumbles in my stomach and briefly
we look into each other’s eyes
mother daughter
father son
mother son
brother sister
daughter father
husband wife.
The breeze through the lanai has become wind
and swelled to a howl, my skin pimpling
and I rub my arms, dream of ugg boots
imported into Florida.
Do you want a blanket?
Then as if to counterpoint:
Your piano, ignoring shipping and the trauma
of the riotous waves, a large crate splintering
what would be my lingering pain.
Why would I want the baby grand
when at nine – don’t you remember –
I became so frustrated
with my mom’s teaching
I stopped playing the piano?
What about five – remember the tiny
ballerina behind you all around
as you played straight-backed and wrists
relaxed because I will never forget.
My brother’s fingers touch
waste time.
You ask this now?
He laughs.
We know it is not funny.
Keith Richards and JS Bach
and the shouting rain
on the condo’s roof
keep a heavy beat;
the steady gutter of water
like strings.