Two Haibuns
1
My mother makes eggs-in-a-nest for breakfast, twists a shot glass in white bread to cut a hole, fries an egg in the center of it. For dinner it's meatloaf, sometimes brisket. I carry it like a baby possum in my mouth to the bathroom, spit it out into the toilet, so I can leave the table. I do not like meat. It is awfully quiet in the kitchen. I get to know the shape of her back curling over a pot, my stare steam on her spine, reminds her of existence. I learn to leave her alone. I learn to be alone in the garden with her roses.
How to prune roses
Clip above outfacing buds
Best in early spring
2
I coat my tongue with sugar, pour a box of raw Jello into my little palm, rhythmically lick it like a cat crouching over a saucer of milk. I learn how to drink. I learn to climb a tree, smoke a joint, get lost. I learn how to shove cans of malt liquor into my tube socks, waddle out of the store, spend the afternoon with a pinball machine. I learn what happens after I follow a boy to his car. I learn not to get into strange boys' cars. I learn there is an expiration date for everything.
Inevitably
All of this will be consumed
Then we learn to stop
