Amy Schroeder 


Her mother misusing the word elegaic; 
her father calling himself stupid- 
She runs her tongue over her teeth, 
thinks: anchorite, cenobite, bite down- 

Corn on the cob, pork loin, tri-tip roast, fish, never. 
The dog on the lawn, humping his pillow. 
The back yard: eugenias and junipers, browning fescue. 
Avocados, azaleas dying in-to-out, 
eight    star     sky. 
The house, the house, the house. 

Bear baiting, she says to no one in particular, 
in Shakespeare's day they baited bears for sport. 

Bear, bare, she could not bare to-she was one of, and her sister beside, 
giggling in and out. 

They used dogs. 

Winstons held beneath the table, smoke blown to the side. 
Flower arranging-some large spiky blue flower 
no one knew the name of, looked like a peacock, 
or like the jay that used to snipe at the cat, 
actually plucking tufts like a crane diving for fish. 

Someone slips on the mossy bricks. Someone laughs. 
Someone blows out the candles, turns on the jacuzzi, 
models the new clothes. Someone covers her mouth. 

Way back then, when we used to fight, 
she thinks, at least then we- 

Dessert. Desert. Be certain. 

Copyright 2000, Amy Schroeder 

Amy Schroeder lives in St. Louis, MO, where she is an MFA candidate at Washington University. She was born in California. This is her first time 
in print. 

Switched-on Gutenberg/Vol. 4, No. 2 

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