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Resolutions

I’ve been thinking I should lighten up
a little. Quit making my kid change
his school clothes the minute he’s home,
even if they are flopping with bacteria.
Let the boys go barefoot—
in the soupy pool shower room,
in the playground dirt pile with all the best
parasites. At 3 a.m., resist waking the baby 
to search his fleshy armpits for ticks.
Clip the older one’s bike helmet
without flashing to the arm swollen
purple, the surgical pins, the incoherent
crying while the anesthesia clung.
Forget my childhood home,
its tidy basement bleeding radon,
my mom’s lungs turned wet
and poisonous. Forget those lungs,
my own lungs, my husband’s lungs
and all the cigarettes he smoked in college.
Ignore the narrowness of his bike lane,
the greedy bite of his chainsaw,
the small, shrinking difference
between his age now and the age
of his father when his father
died. Stop imagining my husband’s life
as a widower. Don’t estimate
whether he could afford a nanny.
A good one. To lead adventures, to point out
swimming holes and climbing trees.
One who, when the boys ask permission,
will laugh and say with all the ease I lacked
Go, go. What’s the worst that can happen?

Abbie Kiefer’s poems are forthcoming or have appeared in december, The Penn Review, The Comstock Review, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, and other publications. She is a stay-at-home parent who has also been a newspaper editor and a copywriter. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband and sons.

Issue 17 >