The Long Weekend
She’s the long weekend. The period left
on sheets. In the evening of her absence,
she is toothpaste, floss, scraps of petals
in the tub or the all-night hours diner
dishing out cups of espresso. Never
satisfied with Miso soup or Singapore
noodles, she’ll prefer the evening
to be served with paninis, windows open,
comforters piled. Netflix used as a dim light
is comfort & triggers The Science of Sleep
as a lullaby along with the distant soap’s growl
in the dishwasher. Mornings when she’s there
are grape juice & eggs. Postcards from Florida
wait to be delivered. Weekends have always
meant no clothes need be pressed. Sunday
is patience, the day she loosens her sweats
& says we’re sick with body ache for the excuse.
On weekdays parents wake up
5AM. It’s comforting to hear
the shower running. The blender
is a light beam signaling breakfast
is ready. The morning news
is a habit. I’ve always hesitated
leaving a good dream. Dad’s
engine is starting. The Encyclopedia
Brown series kept me up last night
Mom insists driving us & tells us
have a good day. 25 years old
I skip breakfasts too often. Press
snooze five times. I don’t use blenders
for breakfast. There are days I skip
the shower. I was never good at routines.
Home for a visit again. It’s time to be a son again.
Sift through dry pinto
beans, pour them into a glass
bowl. Run water over them.
Just like a mother,
let them soak overnight.
In your dreams, they swelled
up again, Sat on the counter
for days. Now those happy
There was a stoning.
A smashing of them. Lard
was involved. The gas stove
lit up, an entire plate
served over rice.
Mother sprinkled pepper
over your body for taste.
Spoons held—ready to scoop you.