She was seven once.

All playing house and Barbie dolls
Girl-doll, boy-doll wedding.
Plastic smiles.
He does—she does.
Pink Corvette convertible.
Floor it to the airport.
Jamaica beach front honeymoon.
Daze back home to Barbie pop-up Dreamhouse.
Conception goes no further.

Then seventeen.

And a real life Ken
a crooked grin.
His dad’s rust bucket Datsun.
Leaky cabin honeymoon
borrowed for the weekend.
Four hours home
to fourth floor walk-up.
Delusion makes it sightly.

One, then two

babies in a frigid fixer-upper.
Groceries or the hydro bill?
Pick one, not two.
Cold war in the kitchen.
Battles in the bedroom.
Shattered looking glass.
Pulled the shards from her head.
Alice doesn’t live here anymore.

Six o’clock

He’s home for dinner.
Finds her cooking cod for Friday.
She forgot to salt the fish.
Stupid cow. How many times…
Holes in wall.
Holes in her.
Mom said:

You made your bed.
Now lie in it.

One day

never comes
and the kids leave home at seventeen.
That wrist he snapped two years ago
aches still when it’s cold.

Listen to the news.

Mayday. Mayday
Maylay MH17 disintegrates on impact.

Confetti—
                  crimson—
dyes shamrock grass and daisies,
buttercups and monarch butterflies,
children chasing collie dogs—
carves an open wound
oozing pock mark in the earth.

Laurie Mackie

Next: Duncan Street

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