(#10) On roots and deforestation.

Prompt: an abecedenarian poem, 26 lines, one letter of the alphabet.

And now for something completely different, the story of two flawed people and their
baby, how they met, lived, bloomed, and died in various
Connecticut suburbs.

Dad was and remains a poet and a fool, a man of incendiary means, a beige, broken
Eames chair of his own, and a decade of
flaunting around Brasil and Germany before he puttered back home to the
grey, seaside property his parents owned to live out a proletarian fantasy fueled by
hatred of his own mother and an unsturdy grappling with his own
insecurity and the eighties, later lived out in a fistfight by a river in Italy.

Jerk as he was, my mother was the perfect counterpart, domineering and quick-witted
kills by day, fresh from orphaned parents and repressed memories and a relationship
later to be determined, with a woman I’d come to know and love myself.

More on that some other day, perhaps.

Nora and Jack’s first date was all wrong, she saw right through him and he saw nothing,
on spite of all that, they were married by September and he stomped on the glass
pumped his foot like it owed him his youth back.

Quick to the kill, like I said, she was pregnant,
ready to breed and brood and work while daddy stayed home,
somehow not expecting the looming storm ahead of them,
the baby was born at 1:21AM, sixteen weeks ahead of schedule,
useless lungs and holes in her hands and feet from the syringes they kept her alive with.

Very good fodder for writing in their journals, but a poor means of persevering, so the
Watsons left their empire after a long, hard battle, trying to save themselves from a sinking ship.

Xenogamy couldn’t hack their respective escapism and affairs, duly passed to the baby like AIDS.
Years: 1989-2009, may their bullshit rest in peace, alimony, and
zelig so they may find comfort in the inevitable shedding of their past lives.

-C.

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