--- S T E V E N   J .  S T E W A R T

this is a boy named Jake tossing a soapy glover against a burning carriage
his mother's name is Mrs. boss
her opinions come from Mexican restaurants for falling dogs
her kitchen is a beige tortilla wrinkling in the sun
a steaming gingham frock layered in glossy mud
they are trying to solve Mondays in the abstract
petitioning their god with recalcitrant expressions of virtue
they practiced science in the electric village
wearing blue jump suits with the eyes torn out
this flashlight is the boy's father stuck in a back pocket
or Mrs. Boss perusing any number of bone charts
the neighborhood women are the wardens of consciousness
their clothes the words summer, grace color, holocaust
Jake thinks saffron is a sum of money earned by dropping sacks of
tortillas
or spilling buckets of guacamole - Jake is a prisoner of the moon
the moon is a parking lot
the father is a major credit card
he is a Monday culminating in your murkiest dreams
Mrs. Boss strides through blood and soil to keep her damaged word
Jake's collection of fifty dancing girls is the sonnet
this little basket of cummerbunds is a burning house
you are the ironed socks in this play
you are the high price of its landscape
your tragic flaw is a poppy
and this dappled matchbook cover an epilogue