Poetry
Grackles
by Henry Hughes
I wake to the baby crying,
hear your voice, then Bob's, then silence
framing the guestroom wedding photos—
all of us formally fit for a fine future. Sure, I love children—
the holding, cooing, those eyes full of wonder. You tuck her in,
turn down the music, dim the lights, never mention
those sunny afternoons on ecstasy,
reaching
into each other's bathing suits before the camera.
That Cuban housekeeper
who went down on us, then stepped in for a drink,
and let the cat
slip out
between her legs. Forget it, you said,
Just get over here and—
Screams split the trees.
What the hell is that? Bob barked. Birds?
Grackles, I cracked,
rising for the black storm.
Grackles, screeching mad
in the lemon tree. The cat clawing nestward
against obsidian dives
and polished stabs. We all saw the nest tear,
and you,
you felt the crazed
creature cry
of parentage.