the lathe

was the most fascinating
machine in my grandfather's
wood-shop.
he said i needed more grip
before i could handle it,
wasn't until my visit
summer after seventh grade i
came in from plunking sparrows in the backyard,
grandpa called me to the kitchen table
showed me a small block of wood made from
five lengths of different colored birch glued
together.
he sat me down and explained how
we'd do it after dinner,
he put the smooth wooden handle of
the blade into my palm,
wrapped his hands around mine
steady pressure he said and it
had to be just so
at such an angle
not to loosely
or it'd fly out of my hands.
he flipped it on and i held tight
carving out a little rough edged bowl
we sanded down and
lacquered.
he glued it to the dash of his suburban
used it as an ashtray for twelve years
until he died of cirrhosis
on a hospice bed
in the living room and
don maas bought all of it
off grandma
in the auction.

edith

she had ankles
like telephone poles

butcher's forearms

whale gut

stench of formaldehyde
from beneath a
billowing
denim skirt.

i couldn't decide if she was retarded
or just a little slow.
we were cleaning
a street full
of college apartments
between summer
and fall lease.

they randomly assigned us in tandems
paid us by the apartment,

i thought she'd be a liability
but she worked like a clydesdale.

right then
we'd been at it
thirty-six hours straight.

she leaned against a sycamore
picking a scab on her forearm
and i sat on the front steps
while the apartment manager
checked our work.

she'd go hours without saying anything
then she'd ask my favorite color
if i'd ever kissed a girl
what kind of cake i liked on my birthday.

i'd gathered
she lived with her dad
out in the country
near gilbert

she liked giraffes
her favorite color
was green.

she pulled her sleeve down
wiped blood from the scab
then she asked
if i wanted to get married.

just like that.

told her
i wouldn't make
a very good husband.

she told me
her dad said
she was rotten fruit

that she'd never find a husband.

i told her
that wasn't true

that she'd make a beautiful wife.

her face went red.

the apartment manager came down
flashed thumbs up
said head over to that complex
across the street.

days like anvils

after three years
mother in law
finally snaps on you.

nothing particularly funny about it
but it's all you can do
not to laugh in her face.

your wife is on the couch
crying

your son is in the backyard
with your father in law.

think this is funny?
your mother in law
slaps you across the face.

you stand up
calmly walk out the front door.

mile down the road
hands in pockets
your wife and son
pull into a driveway
in front of you.

you walk around
wave them off.

they follow a few blocks
at low speed
then disappear.

ten-thirty in the morning
on a saturday.

suzy Q's is open.

pauly the bartender
grabs your chin
low whistle
takes a look at your face.

tell him
you just got done
taping an episode
of jerry springer.

you both laugh.

you ask him
to close the shades.

since when
are you a fucking invalid,
he smiles
and hands you the plastic wand
and pours you a
black velvet.