Her Kids

Her children were born caesarean –
by choice as rumour goes and not
inadequate design; now it may well
explain their leaving. Absences are
clarified in terms derived from why
the silence spells a shaky calm – a
reign of terror quelled, it may say
nothing more about her than a still
to be resolved innuendo hinting at
a neighbour’s unsavoury character.

She walks a thin line between self-
actualisation and numb isolation, a
place where six packs of bourbon &
coke make much more sense. If self
esteem came tailor-made in cans and
there were no come-backs for past
mistakes she’s bound to be okay.
Weekends I sit in the bleachers glad
for peace; her kids drove us crazy
wrecking cars from dawn ‘til dusk.
© 19 June 2008, I. D. Carswell