ROBERT AVILES
Your mother’s third husband once shot
a harpoon at your head when you were
fourteen blow out the candles Robert it’s
your birthday once I was a source of
imitation now you make housecalls to evict
squatters when they swore you into the Marines
the sergeant asked you to please refrain
from laughing Robert we once broke into
the bookmobile and drank and played
our guitars to rattle the windows smoked
the cheapest pot known to humankind
and jointly worshipped Tomi Kaye
Carpenter you wanted me to protect
you from the grand uncertainty of life
Robert the teachers forgot your name
but I remember your estranged father
was congenial an architect your mother
sold Ernest & Julio Gallo wine your cherry
red bass and hatred of sports and the way
you called me after your wife died young
of pneumonia and I didn't know what to say
you didn't seem to want comfort you spoke
of retiring early and becoming a gentleman
farmer you repaired vintage motorcycles
an attempt to prove that toughness I knew
you entirely lacked in childhood you wouldn't
read Freud but believe me when I tell you
happiness is a desire for revenge we watched
Repo Man and read comics planning our famous
band isn't it wrong how these bodies isolate
all you wanted from your mother was a mother
a fast exit from high school a single explanation
for geometry when we met years later you said
you always expected more from me Robert
SUNDAY VISITS
She just died no one knows why
everything hurts get me a slice
of cake save your money doctors
know nothing don't tell your father
I never voted for Nixon every day
I worry what would mother think
the man across the hall talks too much
if I lie down I feel better I never
watch television there's a file beside
the bed marked funeral mother believed
in heaven the letters she wrote good-bye
for now I'm glad you came I never hear
from Ginny Schlomann she must be
mad visit your father when I'm gone
no I don't need anything what if he dies
what if I die they never get the weather right
are there steps I can't go when you
get old don't get old why won't anyone
listen to me when I say it's too hot
too breezy these machines keep calling
I'm alright it's just my insides they
never serve the food we want don't
complain attitude is everything she
always said well I want to complain
I'm complaining now your father
never listened I'm finished with birthdays
you'll see I'm glad you came tell me
no one tells me I played right field
oh well and the french horn bring me
a jar of beach plum jam the bugs
nearly ate us alive your father said
nothing and now I want you to listen
Keith Ekiss is a Jones Lecturer in Creative Writing at Stanford University. He is the author of Pima Road Notebook (New Issues Poetry & Prose, 2010) and translator of two works by the Costa Rican poet Eunice Odio, Territory of Dawn: The Selected Poems of Eunice Odio (The Bitter Oleander Press, 2016) and The Fire’s Journey, an epic poem in four volumes (Tavern Books, 2019). He is the past recipient of scholarships and residencies from the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, Squaw Valley Writers’ Conference, Millay Colony for the Arts, Santa Fe Art Institute, and the Petrified Forest National Park.