Domesticity locates and sponges all evidence of work, a tragedy in unending acts. Post-lunch dirty table, beach sand everywhere. I never learned about the comings and goings of boats, the private yachts followed, in late afternoon, by a giant barge. Some days, I try to find madness, but it bobs in still water.
The white people stare as my child throws a tantrum at the beach. My child throws a tantrum at the beach because he hasn’t caught any fish in his small net. The white people would stare if my child didn’t throw a tantrum at the beach because he hasn’t caught any fish in his small net. No one stares at a tantrum. The white people stare at the parents, a brown mother and white father. The tornado they created.
Walkways are never built over a non-event, but always through some there-ness. I stroll briskly down the planked path to the bay, knowing the wasp nest is always underneath, knowing an alligator is never far off. Found madness. To mother is to bathe others with your mouth, tirelessly.
Usage of the word “vacation” increased steadily from the 1800s. It derives from the Latin “vacare,” or “to be unoccupied.”
A domicile of origin is a domicile a person has from birth. It is not one they necessarily own. A domicile of dependency is had by a child under 16. In 2016, more adults age 18-34 lived with their parents than with a spouse, and 61.5 percent of adults 25-34 lived without children.
What is it like to live in a vacation spot? To hold permanent residence and teach kindergarten and buy groceries and repair cars and break up with boyfriends and mail packages in what others see as a temporary, ideal destination to escape to, take photos of, and leave?
To mother is to categorize a life into allowed and not allowed. Wasp nest alligator tantrum. Currently, I am away, but not as away as can be. Away as I am allowed, my comings and goings. Vacare. My different selves never surprise. They are ready every day, like a kitchen table, with their terrible, plausible storms.
–
This poem uses statistics from the U.S. Census Bureau.
Samantha Duncan is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including Playing One on TV (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2018) and The Birth Creatures (Agape Editions, 2016), and her work has recently appeared in BOAAT, decomP, Kissing Dynamite, Meridian, and The Pinch. She is an assistant editor for Borderlands: Texas Poetry Journal and lives in Houston.