three poems

third eye

At night, an infant, I’d crawl 
downstairs to perform casual 
acts of violence, the radio, 
phonograph, and TV particular 
targets of my ire. To retaliate, 
my father at bedtime affixed 
chicken wire atop my crib.

Those were innocent if benighted times. 
Pregnant mothers smoked, car seats weren’t 
invented yet, no one childproofed their home.

When five years old, caught between gangs of 
rock-throwing boys, my head got split open. 
My parents rushed me bleeding and screaming 
to the emergency room. Decades later I still bear
a crescent-moon scar like an incipient third eye.

Today, on TV, again terrible news. I switch it 
off and sit in darkness while a drone hovers 
outside my window. Observing me, it buzzes,
squeaks, butts against the glass. 

The world is never safe. In the bathroom mirror, 
I touch my scar willing that eye to open.

flash fiction

in the city of k.

I had never been to the city of K. before, having just flown in on business the other night, and so imagine my surprise at seeing my parents, waiting at a bus stop just a few blocks from my hotel.

They looked older and frailer than the last time we had met. They huddled against each other on the bench, their clothes too thin for the cold climate. 

After we kissed I said, "Mom, dad, you can't possibly be here on vacation."

"Of course we'd never leave Florida ordinarily," my mother said through clattering teeth. "But your brother is in town on a stopover—you know how little we see of him!—and he bought us plane tickets so we could meet."

Another coincidence! But I felt slighted and angry that he hadn't also told me about his plans. My father, guessing what I was thinking, said, "Look, son, how could your brother possibly know you also would be in the city of K.?"

"Can't you join us for dinner?" my mother said.