lots tangled up like an owl pellet, barbed-wire ball.
               wrangle up news reports; pelt us with today’s dire maw.
               over Mom’s shoulder, don’t think i’ll mention the crawl.

and don’t remember what we talk about instead.

but
we drip fry grease,
heart drips fry grease,
sky drips heat, this grease-splatter sky.

June ’56
over the wheel, the blue sun-sucking sky, Mom says,
               “For the first time, I think I’m going to write.”
owl pellet feelings, bones and mangle.
               “Lawmaker.”
               “Another one.”
               “And they’re talking about abortion!?”
360 angles and 63 years.
all i know is, “You can call if you want, too.”

Mom says, “It’s so hot today.”

and there’s no answer,
just more gusts of tired-cough clouds, greasing up the sky.