Loose steps lead down to the dusty porch
surrounded by the graffitied stone wall
I watch the sun rise from the lawn chair
paces from the small bungalow where we lived
sharing cinnamon rolls, spaghetti, lemonade
all of us stuffed in tight
the blue coat of paint on the house so worn
we see rough splintered wood underneath
the shutters squeak in the wind
the roof leaks and my father curses, puts
back the split shingles and reseals them
the sun high and hot over the flagstone path
the front door with the torn screen
my grandmother grows tomatoes along that walk
near the boulder left sometime after the last ice age
I imagine its ancient world when dinosaurs
and woolly mammoths roamed among the trees
now the lawn is crushed by dandelions
and giant ragweed bushes stampede across
red tailed hawks screech in wheezing oaks
as my heart sinks with the sun on the planks
and I slip into a place of buzzing voices
my brothers plead
and my mother bangs the car keys on the table
The driveway up front by the big willow
points away from the house onto the broken road
with millions of hairline cracks
like fault lines to other houses, other families.
Alison Carb Sussman’s chapbook, On the Edge, is scheduled for publication by Finishing Line Press in May, 2013. Her poetry has appeared in The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Cutthroat: A Journal of the Arts, The Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Eclipse, Slipstream, and elsewhere. She currently studies at The Writers Studio under the direction of Philip Schultz.
