Matt Lavin
Matt Lavin

Milk on a gravel driveway, shards of glass -- jug handle, base, spout -- granite archipelagos, white ocean. Dad, thick with black, balding hair, eight o'clock shadow becoming chin stubble, sits on the bottom step of the walkway leads from house to driveway, a crowbar across his legs. His head is down. I thought it was poison, she was trying to poison me. Meadow below, forest line, our ramshackle home on top of the hill, and me on the front porch, peering round the blooming lilac bushes. Streams of milk trickle down the hill.

1996 © 2008