• Kicked Out

• Destination Nonna Paolicchi: 1969

• The Great Lakes

• Destination Nonna: 1969

Premature Fluids cruise through tubes
into a diminutive nose
as I photograph her first feeding.
Incubator walls reflect
while obstructing Polaroids.

Three floors down, timely babies:
regulate body temperature,
remember to breathe, breast feed,
go home. Nurses promise wrinkled,
loose flesh will puff up healthy;
I love her in any suit.

Spindly limbs flail in a Tupperware tub
for a first bath. She cries like a kitten
while I snap another shot; photos I'll hide
in boxes I never open.

-lrfg
11/05

1. Premature

1. For Me

For Me

Behind Fidel’s Nursery, in search
of my dog Bella, I pick and flick
burrs that pinch hairy legs.

I imagine her body
on the side of State Road 7,
a vulture’s Smorgasbord.

My search is fruitless,
so I head back, start to cry
tears that are not for her;
because she will show, I know,
in one beautiful piece
under the grapefruit tree in our backyard,

but for me, because I must return
to that house, to my stepson
with all his special needs.

When he was five, I believed
I could help him, believed
he would get better.

Now, he’s eleven, bigger,
Violent.

I became his mom willingly.
Now his kingdom will have no end.

Some days like today,
I want to be
the one who runs.

-lrfg

1. First Fight

First Real Fight


I fought my stepson, who is autistic
and suddenly violent. He hit me again
and again, leaving handprints in bruises
on my forearms and back. I kicked,
karate-style, in an effort to keep our distance.

I pushed him down on his bed , grabbed
his arms, and tucked them under mine.
Like a wild cat, he sat still, then sprung,
twisting feverishly until the motion set him free.

Before swinging again, he picked up my slippers,
the white Deerfoams that flew off when I kicked,
and whipped them at my face. I didn’t want
to get hurt. I didn’t want to hurt him.
And this is now.
I’m five inches taller, fifty pounds heavier.
This is now.

One year from now,
two years from now…

Lord help me.

-lrfg
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1. Melted

Melted

We’re going to surprise her with pudding!

Dinette chairs screech and stumble
on linoleum when we drag them
to cabinets of measuring cups, wooden
spoons and the biggest aqua bowl we can find.
I empty little pouches of powder,
pour the milk, stir and lick the spoon.

Little sister gets jobs like wiping up
spilled chocolate from the floor, discarding
the pudding boxes, standing guard
for signs of an adult. At only four,
she knows more about cooking
because I don’t care, don’t pay attention.

She insists we use Tupperware on the stove.
The first plastic container starts to bubble
under brown goop. Lowering the flame
does not help, bubbles pop. The second
and third melt in similar suit. I hope Dad
can fix those holes. My sister maintains
this is how Mom makes it. We run out
of Tupperware when Mom wakes up
for her big surprise.

-lrfg

Weird Girls

I want to believe the faceless gray
principal at freshman orientation
when he declares "these will be
the best years of your lives."

I want to believe that I’m about to star
in Fast Times at Ridgemont High
or Grease, join the Pink Ladies
for slumber parties where I’ll kick
waxed gams, harmonize with the gals
to snappy tunes, then strut around the backyard pool
to get my friend's brother hard.

But I know he isn’t talking to me,
because high school can’t be that different
from junior high, where I couldn’t make the volleyball team,
where I got cut from the choir,
didn’t even get to play Scottie
in the cancelled Star Trek play;
where at Fort Nightly, the only boy
who ever asked me “may I have this dance”
years later blew his head off in the attic
with his dad’s revolver.

And you know he isn’t talking to you, either,
because we fit together, but not quite anywhere else,
decorate our lockers with John, Paul,
George and Ringo -unrecognizable to most
because that was last decade’s craze.
In Band, we make up rude names
like Gay Boy, Jew Boy, Slut.
In English, we voluntarily sit in front.

Chances are you'll always be
the nameless Weird Girl, and no amount
of monogrammed sweaters or pennies in my loafers
will get me noticed for anything more
than being your best friend.

-lrfg