DEER-DUSK OF AN EVENING
I take Motherís bones to town,
sell them to the lowest bidder,
pennies on the ounce. She calls
in the morning, inquiring about
her shoes, Grandmotherís Cadillac,
other forms of abuse.
I unpin my hair and launch
a pineapple grenade.
Washington State phones.
Apologies for the trains.
Grandmother, surely, wonít survive the ride.
A waterfall slices in behind the eye.
Cousin Jeanís red Mustang
rots beneath pines.
The í51 Ford in the barn,
16,000 miles. No one ever
drives it. Itís never been used.
Charmi Keranen has a BA in English from Indiana University South Bend. She is a freelance writer and a scopist/proofreader of court transcripts. Her work has been published in Slow Trains, elimae, The Salt River Review, jmww and elsewhere.