When their back door swings open,
the man fills its frame. The kids
leap from their chairs in a flurry
of squeals. I’m their Uncle, he lies,
a chuckle under his breath.
Mom and Dad are on a date,
the boy tells him. The man smells
like something sweet and sharp.
He scoops up the girl, spins her
around the kitchen, while the boy
bobs up and down at his feet.
My Red Cross training taught me
to sweep a foreign object
from an infant’s mouth.
Does he ask me how old I am then?
Or is it after he sits at the table?
I serve him apple sliced into crescents,
mac and cheese. He whistles through
his teeth. Thirteen. Damn.
You’re killing me. I don’t know
what he means. The mother titters
when I phone the restaurant.
Not an uncle, just a friend.
It’s (garbled), I hear her mumble
to her husband, music in the back.
Tell him to meet us, she says.
But he stays. Eat, he directs the kids.
Raps his knuckles on the table.
Thirteen? Shakes his head. The boy
pops up then and pogoes around
shouting, Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen!
My face flames. The hair on my nape
rises with the blush. Late that night
after he’d left and then
returned with the parents,
all of them talking too loud,
I worry they’ll wake the kids.
Uncle not uncle. He says
he’ll drive me home, promises
not to kiss me.
–
Lisa Zerkle’s poems have appeared in Raleigh Review, Glass Poetry Journal, Susurrus, storySouth, Rogue Agent, and elsewhere. A graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, she serves as a senior editor for Painted Bride Quarterly, podcaster on PBQ’s Slush Pile, and editor for Iron Oak Editions.