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on a shingle. Look who’s here.
Can’t believe they had the nerve.
Conversation skids to a halt
as everyone assesses the new
arrivals—a stately older woman,
dressed to the nines. Her face
is familiar, but I would struggle
to place it, if not for the younger
man beside her. I haven’t seen
him in years. But I know who he is.
And if he is Trey, she must be
his mom. I’ve seen Maureen in Aunt
Cora’s photo album, her face
less creased then, and her hair
the color of mine. It’s gray now.
They approach Grandfather warily.
The three pull away into a corner.
The room echoes angry drifts of
accusation. Explanation. Denial.
I should go mediate. I should go tell
Aunt Cora trouble’s brewing.
But what I really want to do is run.
RUN, FLEE, FLY
The attack is sudden.
I am a rabbit, surrounded
by starved coyotes.
And like the hare,
certain
death is near, my pulse
guns. Accelerates,
