By Catherine Dartez
I.
My mother latches
on to an oil contractor.
(money)
Life on the road
(homeless)
will be an adventure.
We’ll see the sights.
(gravel and hydraulic pumps)
There’s no room
in the camper
for her Coca-Cola
polar bear tins
even if the oil contractor
loves coke.
II.
My father is silent
about strange things.
(himself)
He betrays my mother
each time he lets her
tell him his thoughts.
She doesn’t mind
until the good news.
(child two)
The things they concealed
blew up their house.
(his secret vasectomy)
To this day, all we know
is he likes Coke.
III.
(before all that)
I run barefoot on wool carpet
with a Coca-Cola
shirt lapping at my ankles,
cooking pot helmet, giggle
in slanted sunlight
between picture windows.
(we rarely speak)
IV.
Now, oil contractor
nails vertical slats
down the over-cab bed
every few inches.
(my new home)
His belligerence silences
my mother’s objections.
I sit with that manila,
one-eyed teddy
trading screams.
(let me out)
(shut up)
He hangs a curtain. Now,
his coke and I are safe
while my mother
sees the sights.
Catherine Dartez is a junior at the University of Tennessee-Knoxville. She ditched her administrative career to pursue her love of creative writing with the support of her family, dog, and goldfish. The cats are indifferent. Honors include the Sundress Academy of the Arts Emerging Writer Contest winner and second place for the Michael Dennis Poetry Prize. Catherine’s poetry has appeared in The Phoenix Literary Arts Magazine and is forthcoming in The Allegheny Review.
