At the family cookout, I help Rodney Dick,
the Jesuit priest who loves pickles as if
they were peaches, shape hamburger
into patties until I hear shouts:
snot-nosed little cousins trying to
learn croquet. They need a good spanking,
says George, the wanna be cowboy,
shooting his BB gun at a chicken.
Dammit, someone says, we’ll be
breaking our teeth on that chicken.
George has a coughing fit, face red,
raw as a strawberry,
and I remember Hank Polanski,
my Polish uncle, bottle of bourbon in one hand
a beer in the other, chasing Aunt Rita through
the cemetery after Nana’s funeral, singing,
She was only the stable man’s daughter
but all the horse men knew’er; how he chased
my brother and me with his Knights of Columbus
sword when we visited their house, before
he finally got arrested and sent off to rehab.
The wind picks up and we remember
there’s a pulp mill up the road. Aunt Olivia’s
cat comes out of the bushes with a mouse
wriggling in her jaws. I think she’s happy.
Jake the dog lays under the table getting
handouts from us all. He’s happy.
I’m stuffed with beans and burgers and a
beer or two as well. I know I’m happy.
Starlings see the food and land among us,
nibbling bits of pretzels and chips. They look happy.
Mosquitos bite me through my jeans and raise
enormous itchy welts. I bet they’re happy.
E J Barron
E J Barron 