Moonshine and Epsom Salt
by Jean McIntyre Cogdell

I OVERHEARD mama talking. When I came in the house the worry and anger in her voice made me tiptoe to the kitchen doorway. Grandma sat at the table; Mama’s voice stern. “Look at your face…” I eased back out of sight; something was wrong. Fear reached for my throat when I noticed the tears in Mama’s eyes.
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Power is to see parents as they are
to not show yourself as Mongol will
in awe to trace splendour’s serve, in one transcendent clear throne textile mill
Power saw the lie slice the apartment, for she is triumphant and speaks to
        contraceptive pill

The stairway cracks
The ants that tickle your toes
While you’re reading,

She picks up the dress
that hangs on the bedpost
drapes it about her
and twirls
like a drunken ballerina.

this man I saw today--
a silk-white gel-waved hairpiece
capping a sunless tan & a silver-grey suit--
threw his whole body forward for one instant,
as if he planned to jump
after his smartphone tumbled
through his fingers & down
to the subway tracks,
but he stopped as its screen shouted one last
breath of light before going dark,
the life inside ending with a plastic crack
that quieted as violently as it began.