Taut
by Dyson Waite-Himmelwright
Beaches teach me
to hold a grudge:
a wave delivers me
to a mouth full of sand.
My father makes Jesser’s
stew and I close my windows
as he smokes cigars. Always
on drought rations, Ms. Wilson
says, “If it’s yellow, let it
mellow…” For a while
the sunflower volunteers
come in and die just right;
before Halloween. Feral
cats stalk the big brown
stalks and my father’s
father doesn’t remember us.
I don’t know when
I learn not to be taut.