Riskless nights’ suburban memory: a Stop
through the plosive, my heart in soil, always
punished for one reason or another: because
a chain net dulled the family basketball, killer
bees murdered Texas, I’d already been a devil
with my cream-bleached towels, rug burns,
ignored Post-its. I copied books on tropical
diseases, saw elephantiasis before I had
pubic hair, learned age was a wheelbarrow;
I couldn’t be careful enough.
Gallants get splinters. Corners widow-glint.
A classmate electrocuted by a hair curler or
bashed in the head with a slugger bat, rolls
lost to super-glue, marker huffs, choking,
ticks—all, said Mom, because of divorce,
the mother of risk. Were we better than that?
My parents together in ruin? I used to wear
a scapular to bed. Complained to my dad,
who said: A life well lived learns every day.
Venus flytraps were his favorite topic.
David Rodriguez is a writer and teacher based in New Orleans with an MFA from Florida State University. He has previously been published in the New Orleans Review, The Southeast Review, The Sandy River Review, Hawai'i Review, and Jarfly, among other places.