Spot I: Groceulogy in Gravel

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Spot I: Groceulogy in Gravel


Gum in hair and cheek bloody from skidding
across gravel in the trailer-park lot
comes with fear and punishment:

It was a picture day. I should have not fallen off my bike.
This is the story.
This is the lesson.
This is the permanent pothole on that side street
flanking the pig's way to market.

I worry the biggest lesson my children will learn from me is how not
to be a mother.

The story rotates 180°. Hope to god,

as you stand there with your bunch of cilantro and romas 
that there isn't too much story in the woman behind you.
Those big red lips, that forward lean. 
That officious maternity. 

Some are eager to empty, and the sound
gravels you. 

Learn to recognize a eulogy when you hear it.
It might be yours
as you ride into the lot.








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