LE CHANT DU STYRENE (GREEN)

Sister and I
meet at the funeral home,
on the dot.

In the show-room
we find ourselves agreeing,
agreeing,
agreeing,
enough

to provision a crowd
of Nepalese Maoists
for a winter’s campaign
in Himalayan foothills.

We sign the forms,
join the payment plan.

Remember,
we once drove with mother,
in 1986? Up from the Texas coast
through Conroe and Cleveland
to the Big Thicket.

Red Arrow resort deckchairs
slimed with algae.
Steep plasticine
slides, sun-toasted kids
splashed on
the lake’s safe side.

On the other: ailing
alligators, caked
in damp mud,
dozed
among the rushes.

We knew not to look,
not to ask,
over Shasta
and squeeze-cheese.

COOKING AND CLEANING

I.

Chickens strangled,
purple-hulled peas or pintos squealing
in the pressure cooker.

Grandmother said, bitter as collards:
“Don’t go near that pot!

It could go off any second!”

My mother
heard her well, set off

on a wide walkabout.

II.

I’m on my knees,
scrubbing
the carpet, anointing

cat-sick with crudities. After,
I stir Campbell’s tomato with milk,

all my wife can keep down.

I coax dust-mites from our pillows,
but not the knots

from her inwards.

James Miller is a native of Houston, though he has spent time in the American Midwest, Europe, China, South America and India. Recent publications include Cold Mountain Review, The Maine Review, Gyroscope, 2River, After the Pause, Lunch Ticket, Across the Margin, Gravel, Juked, Main Street Rag, 2 Bridges (forthcoming) and Verdad (forthcoming).

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