By Eric Schwerer
Adrenaline of Loss, raise the hairs on my
sorry neck. Do you hear me? All last night I
remembered the winter I made Tammy—sweet
Tammy with her right-word scent—take her pants down
past her hips where I’d had my hand between her
thighs, my wrist levered against her zipper, cupping
her ass, my thumb inside her—this time had her
take them to her ankles as I slid across
the seat. She didn’t ask, half stood, was able
to turn, press her back into the dash, a knee
either side, then slowly sit on my lap, my
dick. I held her head, held in my two hands her
serious face as she drew my tongue into
her hot, hot mouth. I came quickly without a
gasp. The winter vanquished, night-gone, just steamed glass
in the truck cab, my skull, where I had had it.
How do you drown five children? You start with your
oldest. Unless he somehow understands, then
you begin with your second, have the first help
you by the porcelain tub to hold him in.
Or is it possible you kill the youngest
first by accident giving her a bath? Or
the youngest are twins (were unplanned), the other
three are outside on the swing and in your grief
you dry both off, put them, cold skin, to sleep. Then
through your bedroom screen you call Jonathan, who
is three and doesn’t complain you haven’t drained
the water from the twins. The struggle’s no more
than holding something inflatable under
at the swimming pool. Still the problem remains:
your oldest will wonder where the others are.
Yes, start with him. He’s summer-hot and itching.