Dream House

POETRY

by Mark Lilley

After closing on our dream house,
my wife asks me what I’m thinking,
and I tell her I’m thinking of a night
long ago in the two-bedroom trailer.

My mother is winding down
from her double shift at Bundy Tubing,
my stepfather sleeping behind drawn curtains.

She fiddles with the radio knob,
wrestling with winter static
until she finds Marty Robbins.

My brother and I kneel on our camouflage cot,
elbows resting on the windowsill,
watching the snow fall slowly at first,
then faster, cigarette smoke seeping
into our linens and pajamas.

My brother wants to know how much
we could make shoveling the trailer park.

When I suggest twenty dollars or more,
he slips under the blanket,
insisting we hurry to sleep
so the morning will come sooner.

Family Vacation

POETRY

by Mark Lilley

On the highway they are more than cordial,
sharing Marlboros, the radio.

My brother and I roll our eyes
as they sing sloppily to George Jones,

their voices giddy and unchoked,
mixing like sleet on that night

when black ice slickened the streets,
and we had visions

of our father skidding into a ditch.
We were relieved when the doorknob turned

and he walked in sober, unscathed
until our mother lit into him for some betrayal,

and back out he went. On that winter night
it was hard to imagine this summer afternoon,

dashboard vibrating, their faces spotted
with shadows of brush and pavement,

my father asking if she’s getting too much wind,
the moment my mother turns to him,

his hand rolling up the window
after she says, Yes, Baby.

Social Security

POETRY

by Mark Lilley

After my father died, a brown envelope arrived
each month with a plastic sliver in the middle,
little window where my name appeared on top
of my father’s, the order a kind of reminder.

My mother would drive the dented Plymouth
to pay bills—electric, telephone, Rent-to-Own.

One month there was enough left over
for a new baseball glove. I greased its pocket
with Vaseline until the webbing softened
and I could snatch the ball with one hand
like my hero, Bake McBride.

When we played catch in the front yard,
my mother caught the ball bare-handed.
I don’t recall a single wince.

But I remember red stitches rotating in the air,
and the nighttime routine when she confronted
the calendar on the fridge, X marking off another day.