Shane T. Wyman
Some days she is still there, standing
Beneath the ricketing ceiling fan-
Sure to come unhinged at the right speed
She is cooking or baking, mixing or blending
Something of herself, something Polish
Or Italian or working mechanic
Some days she is staring out apple-draped
Windows at the bases-loaded ghost players
We left behind at sixth grade graduation
She is sitting in her peach blossom chair, huddled
Over yarn balls, crochet needles, bible pages,
Logic puzzles, Twelve Sharp Janet Evanovich
She is lying on her white sheets and grey comfort,
Crooked dolled and tucked under her husband’s gun-
Her worries mothering love to millennial children
She’s on the freshly sanded staircase,
Pleading that her love is salvation- welding herself,
Desperate prisoner, to the wrought iron handrail
She is there- 81 Avenue- in that house we left
Abandoned- slow cooking her soul, dusting
Her trinkets for disappointing company
Quietly and clearly complaining to herself
Fussing and perfecting construction- making
those manic walls home for a family not coming
***
Shane T. Wyman is a New Hampshire native. He is receiving a bachelor’s degree in English at Northern Vermont University-Johnson, where he has served as treasurer to The Writer’s Club, and as an editor for Pamplemousse (ed. 5.1). He currently resides in Vermont.