I hear the knock

Mother tips the baking tray
a cluster of muffins
stumble fall into the basket

Her hair is a
frizzed
black halo of
death angels
flying around her

I'm looking out the window
seeing trees
thinking of callouses

She never hums
on Friday nights

The kitchen
quiet save the hiss pop
of the elements
as they cool

We hear the knock

Mother allows one
furtive glance
just one
to slip from her eyes
a clear tear
to be muddied and sullied


She is looking out
the window
seeing trees
thinking of callouses

We jump when the screen door
claps shut
but it is my little brother
come in from the back yard

Mother harries and hurries
him into the bathroom
to clean and scrub
and avoid

From the shed
expletives
descend
a cloud
buzzing and biting

I am closing my eyes

tight

seeing trees

only trees