He doesn’t say anything to the garlic. Mother Stress is

in the kitchen. Water from the shoddy gutter tugging

down the door, cracked from a wayward sun. And the

cat was dragging his bum leg. The cat called Patience.

Patience of farm and fichus. If only the son could be

mastic. If only the son could go dusky. Chromaticism,

chromosomes, clutched undercover. Her hopes. He

turned the knob on the stove and the flame was

grave, sidereal. Are you attracted to me? He asked the

onions. Huh? Huh? Meanwhile, she kneaded her

temples. He was mauling the beef, massaging the

marble, applaudable marbling—it’s Charity, Mother.

Patience and Charity mewling in the alley. Stop

worrying. Well, grow up. She would worry if she

wanted to. You don’t tell me what to do, Mr. Blue

Battleships tattooed on your shoulder. We just

refinished these floors.