TOPSAIL

Miss Geller’s Barbados crown,

circles the other girl’s face,

yet blonde,

while she bakes.

Cod with Ritz.

And, she,

watches the dolphins,

with their accidental grins,

wave in the waves

with their virtual arms and hands,

at her curious gaze.

while they suck fish bones,

from their pebble teeth.

The ocean is one and many,

while it shows its black,

at night,

sometimes.

With its billions of workers who in their grain bodies

soften with their grit,

the contents of its cupboards.

And, it sighs at the oohs and ahhs,

that it hears while the,

not-noticed,

is seen once again.

Plain gray rocks and little black teeth,

broken shells,

or miniature trees.

Chunks of glass,

Budweiser.

They rub their thumb on the edge,

and feel it in their chests,

and if the blood does not come,

they call the brown compressed sand,

that became smooth by its relatives,

sea glass.

Repeat it.

Sea glass,

Natures unnatural art.

As they walk with their heads down.

Hunching to find,

The treasure or,

the fantasy message,

in a bottle of ale.

The breaths are deeper,

Deepest.

Loud, full breathing, slow.

Long outs.

Longer ins,

keep some.

Lungs’ delight.

And, the skin somewhat,

smoother than yesterday,

toes and shoulders turn brown,

under the pink Coppertone and squarish freckles.

Roaring hushes the thoughts of,

What is next and what was before.

Wavy steps slow as the end appears.

Boat-tailed Grackles wait to take it.

Seeds of the sun’s flower,

black oiled like their,

windy feathers.

And, the leftovers are gently grabbed,

by the one-footed gull with her,

perfectly pedicured toes.

Her soft feathers,

just white,

flow as she looks into your eyes,

to see where the next toss will aim,

or to know your blues.

And, she gracefully dangles in the air,

singing like a squawking angel,

needing no sympathy,

as she takes turns with her new, old friends.

The fuzzy, savage cats,

smash their young faces on their mate’s,

as they beg and exist in their fatness,

of black stripes on brown fur,

flicking tails and kneading toes.

Dancing for their food,

deli turkey or leftover salmon.

Their song is like the water’s,

while the purring and roaring dance.

And, the humans fall for their massive blinking,

and their hypnotic petition.

The velvet deer in the beaten trees,

twitching her wavy ears,

hiding in the crooked sharpness,

living in the death.

Waiting for her turn,

to dine.

After the cherub cats,

and the,

fliers and swimmers and the ones with the,

money,

or the,

prehistoric glow,

of the celebrity bird.

If I only had a silver fish,

To drop into your impressive.

Gullet.

As you glide by with your,

russet friends with the same,

tattered plumage.

Not even a side-glance,

Maybe you’re praying,

for your vanishing kind.

Hometown Love

I grew up in Southampton, Massachusetts near Hampton Ponds. The kids in my neighborhood were called “Pond Scum” by others, and eventually we decided that it was a term of endearment. I walked to Mahoney’s package store to buy candy with babysitting money, attended the Primary School before it was the town hall, and William E. Norris until sixth grade. After that, I went with all the other Southampton kids to Hampshire Regional High School, and graduated in 1992. After I turned twenty-one, I fell in love and married a marine, Roger Adams, and we moved to North Carolina. He was from Greenfield.

My husband, Roger, was born in Montague, Massachusetts, and lived in that area until after his graduation at Franklin Technical High School. His trade was carpentry. After high school, he decided to move to Kentucky to spend time with his mom and siblings down there. It didn’t take him long to realize he wanted to serve his country, so he joined the marines at the closest recruiting center that happened to be in Tennessee.

Roger and I lived for years in North Carolina, near his duty station which was Camp Lejeune. After he was killed in Iraq in 2009, the boys and I remained in North Carolina, stunned and confused. In 2016, we moved back to my hometown of Southampton, Massachusetts to be close to family.

After we settled a bit and did some home repairs, I turned in my application for a survivor’s tax exclusion. The law is explained in this link: https://www.sec.state.ma.us/cis/cisvet/vetprptax.htm It tells about the different benefits given by Massachusetts to veterans, their families, and other survivors. They are quite generous, and before I left North Carolina, I budgeted accordingly. With the tax break, the boys and I would be able to financially make it, so we planned and packed.

Months after I applied for the exclusion which I was sure to receive, I found a denial letter in the mailbox, laughing at me. It stated that because Roger did not enlist in Massachusetts, his family did not qualify. My life in Massachusetts, and his entire childhood in Massachusetts did not count. After months of trying again and doing research, I was advised to appeal. I paid a hundred dollars to be heard by Boston.

Mid-July I had to go to court against my hometown in Northampton, Massachusetts. It was hot, but thankfully, sunny. I had never been to the courthouse so I put the address in my GPS and was on my way. It was only minutes from my house. I found a parking spot close to the entrance of the grand building, and used the ParkMobile app to pay. I gulped down the butterflies, channeled my inner imitation strength, and walked into the building. I waited in line to go through the metal detectors. I took off my shoes and Roger’s dog tags I wore for luck, and gave the guard my phone and bag. Then, after a few wrong turns, found some people going to the Superior Courtroom One, so I followed them like an orphaned chick.

The room was grand with a painted ceiling and wood everywhere, and a nice man sat next to me. He was on the docket as well for what seemed like a silly waste of time. We shared our stories in condensed versions, and were each other’s cheering section. It was nice to simply have company. His turn came and went, then several others, then Southampton was called. It was my turn.

I attempted to prove Roger’s domicile which is a sensitive term in this case. I explained how Roger was born here, went to school here, and graduated here. He turned 18 in Massachusetts, got married in Massachusetts, and the boys and I were in Southampton, Massachusetts when we were notified of his death. I wrote a page to read to the court, and it was received with gentle thanks and remarks by all.

The commissioner asked if I or Southampton had anything else to say, and I was done, but the town had one more thing to add. He said how they talked to an attorney about the case, and apparently because of the way the law is worded, we do not qualify for the tax break. The commissioner took the attorney’s name.

They talked to an attorney. They really didn’t want me and the boys to have this break. I don’t know why but that part hurt the worst. They put great effort into making sure we didn’t get this break. I don’t know what the verdict will be, but I do know that we will leave as soon as we can. Even if we win, we feel unwelcome. When we leave, we will feel like we are escaping. We learned the lesson that home is not a tangible thing.

This is the last paragraph of my court statement:

In closing, I must make the most important point as far as I’m concerned. When Roger was on a naval ship after 9/11 outside of the Middle East, he fought for America, not a specific state. When he was in Iraq in 2004-2005, he was a target and woke many nights to mortar attacks on their camp. He did that for America. When Roger woke me up in the middle of the night to simply be awake with him after his first tour in Iraq, he suffered that for America. When Roger drove his Humvee over an IED in 2009, killing him and three others, he did that for America. His heart was in Massachusetts, but he died for America.

My Phone

Sometimes your thumb will run over a sandy bump,

On your phone.

And you’ll go over it again.

And once more.

Right away.

Until it comes off,

with an audible

Tick.

Then you’ll see the Poodles for sale and

The gofundme for his beard

Or a dead deer with that tear in her

Eye

And Her son’s trophy and His cat’s babies

Or the rib roast with gravy all lumpy with

Peppered potatoes with the butter

And vote for her and hate him,

And happy birthdays that you,

Forget.

Then you email and say happy

Bee:

Late:

Edward. vs. Jacob or

Pepsi versus coke

And legalize the weed and wanna

Buy

My product?

Email from the school there’s been a lockdown,

While Verizon

Emails

Texts

Calls

You’re late and time to give

The German shepherd her medicine,

The phone rings and you listen to the messages

Because what if you miss that

One

The collectors and the sellers and

Battery is dying but my song is playing

Mr Telephone Man

The Edition is not new

Then your thumb has sweat

And it won’t scroll

So you wipe it on your boob

Through

Your t-shirt.

No Teeth

He had no teeth until they took turns erupting through his fresh gums, and it hurt so he bit his mom’s cracked breast. Then he walked a little with his chubby legs and turned-in toes, stopped shitting his pants, and went to school. After that, he went to more school and married the girl with yellow hair, made a resume, and was away nine to five. He retired, and they gave him a party at the local VFW with balloons and potluck meatballs mixed with ketchup and ginger ale. His parents died of cancer and heart break, and his wife loved another, so he learned how to warm canned meats and TV dinners. Then his grandkids drove him to the doctor and they started being really nice to him. They didn’t want to change his diapers and blend his milkshakes, so they put him at that place that smelled like rotting meat. He met friends that died, and he watched the fish in the tank as he drank out of Styrofoam. The watery coffee was chilly and transparent. He took out his teeth and closed his vanishing eyes.