Fumes

by M.E. Silverman

The day mother and I leave, two

Canada geese arrive—

their long, black necks arrow

toward the pond and fold into themselves

like cocktail napkins. I hoped

they’d stay there forever.

The afternoon burnishes

Mother from freckle-red to bruised-peach,

like a glass of brewed tea,

left out and discolored. Ladybugs cling

to the apple-red of the front door,

a small mosquito meals on my arm,

a solitary squirrel digs for nuts.

After another fight about breaking

bread and bowing heads,

she rushes me into the car.

Exhaust fumes sputter

moons. This is June:

dust blots the glass,

love bugs and moths

smear the customized grill.

The car trembles

with purpose.

In the back seat, I wait.

An orange bear

pillows my bruised head.

On the busted porch,

Father crushes cans, smokes

Strikes—the blue crown

of his yamaka turned

toward us. Mother peals away—

runs down the white mailbox.

 M. E. Silverman currently resides in Georgia and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mizmor L'David Anthology: The Shoah, Crab Orchard Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, The Los Angeles Review, Naugatuck River Review, Cloudbank, Pacific Review, Moulin Review, Sugar House Review, and other magazines. He was a finalist for the 2008 New Letters Poetry Award and the 2008 DeNovo Contest.